


Meet in the Middle

by squireofgeekdom



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: (though not to the point of graphic depictions of violence), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Physical and Emotional Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Diverges from post- Transformers: Lost Light 9, Dopplegangers, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, False realities, Gaslighting, Getting Together, It's not so much a slow burn as it is a slow working-through-your-issues-and-trauma, M/M, eventually, the following tags are all directly related to each other:, with a few other retcons here and there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-06-11 04:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squireofgeekdom/pseuds/squireofgeekdom
Summary: “Either I find the Knights with my crew - all of my crew, or not at all,” Rodimus says, stepping forward to speak to the circle at large. “You wanted me to take responsibility?” he adds, looking directly at Optimus. “This is me taking responsibility.“I’m going back for Drift, and I’m not stopping until I find him, or until whatever took him kills me.” Rodimus stares around the circle, one by one. “No one else has to come with me. You want to find the Knights? You’ll do it without me. I’m going to find Drift.”---For Rodimus and Drift, the journey back to each other won't be easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For your background, a rough timeline of the How This Fic Came to Be:
> 
> "...i basically just want to do a driftrod greek myth style rescue quest with more scifi weirdness" - me, October 23rd, 2017
> 
> The next day: oh, wouldn't it be fun if that story incorporated some of the squad's endgame fan theories and speculation?
> 
> A few weeks later, hip deep in plotting and [redacted] worldbuilding: What Have I Done.
> 
> Later: ... what do you mean, 'the entire IDW universe is ending in September'?
> 
> Now, with 3 chapters written, over a hundred pages worth of outlining, and a separate document for mythbuilding: WHAT HAVE I DONE.
> 
> Also now: THIS IS GOING TO BE AWESOME.
> 
> This fic would not exist without Kepler, the most fantastic of beta readers, (all remaining errors are mine) font of good headcanons and theories, best of friends, and the reason I got into this space robot roadtrip in the first place. Thanks to you and Mairi, and to everyone who's been with me on this crazy robot ride.
> 
> And on that note, I'll let you get to reading. Thanks for travelling with me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy making playlists more than writing summaries, so I'm taking another leaf out of jro's book and will post a few songs every chapter in place of an actual summary, in case you like having a reading soundtrack. I make no apologies for my musical taste or lack thereof. For this chapter --  
> No Strings - I Fight Dragons; You're Not Alone - The Mowgli's; Second Family - Patent Pending

“No.”

It is the first thing Rodimus has said in the discussion, and Optimus Prime turns away from the deliberations to look at him. “Pardon?”

The rest of the circle is also staring at Rodimus. Most of the crew of the Lost Light, and assorted additions, is setting up temporary shelters, the strange storm having been followed by whatever passes for night on Cyberutopia. Their circle of deliberations, however, is huddled around a temporary light source, adding to the glowing reflections from two of the smaller orbiting planetoids and the shrinking light of the third sun. The rays of the sun’s light are barely visible beyond the rim of the canyon their camp sits at the bottom of - too narrow for the Lost Light, leaving them to travel on foot. They’ve been trapped in discussions for what feels like years.

“I said no.” Rodimus finally looks up from his folded arms. He stands off to the side of the circle, his optics only barely catching the light of the lamp, partially blocked from view by Ultra Magnus and Ratchet. “We’re not ‘moving on’. We are not continuing this ‘quest’. Not until - “

“Rodimus,” Optimus Prime starts, “You can’t possibly think -”

“Either I find the Knights with my crew - _all_ of my crew, or not at all,” Rodimus says, stepping forward to speak to the circle at large. “You wanted me to take responsibility?” he adds, looking directly at Optimus. “This is me taking responsibility.

“I’m going back for Drift, and I’m not stopping until I find him, or until whatever took him kills me.” Rodimus stares around the circle, one by one. “No one else has to come with me. You want to find the Knights? You’ll do it without me. I’m going to find Drift.”

\---

He likes checklists.

Get off Necroworld - check. Take back the Lost Light from scheming, backstabbing son of a bitch - check. Find Cyberutopia - long, roundabout, and increasingly weird, and Ratchet, of course, still didn’t buy it - but he’s going to go ahead and give that a check, because Drift had taken one look and said it.

Drift -

It had taken - what had felt like years, but other people insisted on calling ‘like a couple of weeks, Rodimus, _seriously_ ’ - to retake the Lost Light, and then - months? A year? - whatever, it didn’t really matter - it had taken that, and the addition of Optimus Prime to the Lost Light, to find Cyberutopia. And then -

It wasn’t what he expected. Which sounds like a dumb thing to think, because he couldn’t really tell you what he _had_ expected, not in any concrete terms, but - whatever it was, it hadn’t been that. He hadn’t expected the barren surface, he hadn’t expected Blaster to inform him that they couldn’t detect lifesigns on any of the planets -

He hadn’t expected the storm.

Why hadn’t he stayed closer to Drift?

He knows why. He knows it had made sense to put Magnus at the front, being the tallest and the most easily spotted in the poor visibility, along with Ratchet, whose sirens could easily be heard even if visibility went to zero. He knows that Drift volunteered to sweep for stragglers in the back, while Rodimus shepherded the middle.

He should have said no. He should have put Drift in the center, that way at least someone would have seen when he was - taken.

Because Drift was the only one who was gone when the storm had stopped. No radio calls, no screaming his name into the gathering dark, none of it raised any sign of him. None of it brought him back. He was just - gone.

But he isn’t going to stay gone. Rodimus is going to find him.

\---

Rodimus stares at the cubes.

The amount of fuel he’s taken, dropped on the floor of the temporary shelter, is enough to last him a few days, probably three - an approximation that comes almost without thought - less if he ends up sharing with Drift on the way back. There’s still some part of him that considers having this much fuel at once absurd, half expects someone to come chasing after him for his loot. Even the three cubes tucked in his subspace - because though his subspace may be what others describe as a ‘mess’, he always, always keeps food there, ever since he’s had food to keep  - seems bizarrely fortuitous to that same part of him.

Drift will have energon in his subspace, he knows that - it’s for the same reasons he does. He probably won’t have to spare more than a few cubes on the way back.

He picks up one of the cubes, tugging the wrapper he uses to keep the energon in his subspace together out so he can wrap them all up together. The liquid shakes with the motion, gleaming with the light caught off of his own optics, and -

\- _light gleaming off a pool of energon, bleeding out from Drift’s body, optics flickering_ -

No. He wasn’t letting that happen. Wherever Drift had been taken, he would find him, and he would -

The cube shakes more, and it takes him a second to realize it’s because his hand is shaking. He can’t quite steady it enough to put it in his subspace.

_failure you can’t even do this right you think you’re going to find Drift? you were too scared to when you sent him away, he’ll hate you even more now, you lost him, you’re on Cyberutopia and you can’t even get out of camp -_

He sets the cube on the wrapper. He is going to make this right.

“I was hoping you’d still be here,” Optimus says, from just behind him - he almost jumps at the sound. “I was worried you’d driven right out of camp, until Roller told me you’d gone for the energon supplies.”

In fairness, he had driven nearly half a klik from camp before realizing that he couldn’t bring back Drift with nothing, not that he’d tell Optimus that. He already regretted the lost time.

“I didn’t take more than my and Drift’s share, if that’s what you’re here about.” He’d taken less, technically, just - in advance. There was only so much he could carry.

“You know I’m not.”

“What do you want?” He picks up another cube and shoves it in the wrapper to avoid looking at Optimus. “If you’re trying to convince me to stay, I don’t have time for it, I need to get out of here -”

“Rodimus,” Optimus starts, and then pauses.

 _“What_?” Rodimus says, finally impatient enough to whirl around to face Optimus. “Let’s get this over with, I have to - I have to get to -”

“Rodimus, you have to realize that you’re acting like - “

“I’m acting like _what?”_ Rodimus snaps. “Like I’m panicking? Because let me tell you a secret: _I am._ My best friend - one of _my crew_ \- is _gone,_ I _lost him_ and I have no way of knowing where -”

“You cannot possibly think this is the responsible way to behave. Jeopardizing yourself, jeopardizing the mission, for one person -”

“My crew _is_ the mission!” Rodimus bursts out, and when he says it out loud he realizes he believes it. “Drift - Drift is -”

“Rodimus -”

“What do you even care if I’m there when you find the Knights - you - you’re going to find them -”

Drift wouldn’t believe that. Drift had said Rodimus was essential. Drift would say -

Screw it. He’d been wrong when he’d let Drift go the last time, he wasn’t going to do it _again._ He’d been wrong when he’d let Drift stay gone, he’d been wrong when -

“It’s not like you weren’t willing to write me off _before_ -” He snatches another cube off the floor. “You didn’t care so much about -”

“If you’re talking about Mega-”

 _“He shot me in the chest!”_ Rodimus shouts, but for once he’s not seeing a gun blast and the void of space, he’s seeing Drift, and his greatsword through his own spark, in Vector Sigma, and it hurts just as much. “You didn’t - you had no - it was _never_ your ship!”

It was Drift’s ship. It had always been Drift’s ship

“It was _never_ your _crew!”_ He continues. “You _never -_ ”

“The trial -”

“It wasn’t about my crew! It wasn’t about _me!"_

Optimus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That - this isn’t the point -”

“No. It’s not.” Rodimus grabs another cube. “It’s about Drift, who’s - who’s out there,” he says, “and I’m going to find him.”

“Rodimus - you have to understand -”

“I have to understand what? I don’t - look, I understand, you’ll go find the Knights of Cybertron, because _of course you will,_ you’re Optimus Prime, and you showed up _just as we were getting somewhere,_ of _course,_ and it’ll be - great, and heroic, and amazing, wonderful, I get it, just -” He turns back around, and looks at Optimus again. “I have to do this. I have to go back for Drift, before -”

He doesn’t have time for this. Drift - Drift could be -

“Rodimus, you -” Optimus pauses, then, “you have to consider the possibility - the _probability_ \- that Drift is _dead.”_

The cube slips from his fingers.

“For you to go,” Optimus continues, “and - and risk your life trying to -”

 _“I don’t care,”_ Rodimus cuts Optimus off, so he can’t keep talking, so he doesn’t have to - to think.  “I don’t care. I’m done. I’ve spent too long listening to Prowl - to you - hell, even Drift. I’m done. I won’t treat my people - my crew - as pawns. I’m not Prowl. I’m not _you_. And I sure as _hell_ won’t treat any of my people the same way you treated -” And he stops.

“Rodimus -”

Rodimus snarls and turns back to the cube that’s fallen to the floor. There’s a crack from where he dropped it, but none of the energon has spilled. He picks it up. “I’m not going to be that person. Never - _ever_ \- again.”

Optimus is wordless.

“Go,” Rodimus grits out. “Go. Find the Knights. I’m done.”

Optimus steps towards the door, and then stops. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because he’s my crew. Didn’t I say that?”

Optimus looks down. “Be safe, Rodimus. If you change your mind -”

“I won’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rodimus doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cubes.

\---

Ratchet coughs from the entryway, and Rodimus realizes mid-stride that he’s been pacing for - too long, and he hasn’t even picked up another cube.

“You know, if Optimus sent you here to try and talk me out of this, he picked the wrong person,” Rodimus says. “‘Cause I’m just going to call you a hypocrite.”

“That’d be a new word for you.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark.”

Ratchet huffs. “I’m here to say I’m coming with you.”

Rodimus looks at him, with a chagrined smile. “If I said you should stay with Optimus and find the Knights, you’d just call me a hypocrite too, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Ratchet says with a shrug. “Never been too fussed about the Knights. You know that.” He sits down and hands Rodimus a cube of energon from the floor. “‘Sides, I don’t feel any better about leaving him behind than you do, kid.”

“I - yeah, I know.” He says, stopping in the middle of tucking the cube into the wrapper. “Did - did I ever say thank you?”

Ratchet doesn’t ask what for. “Yeah. You did.”

“Good. I meant it.”

“I know.”

“You know -” Rodimus starts, looking up at him, “you don’t have to do this.”

“I know that too,” Ratchet says. “Do you?”

“I - I think I do. Have to,” Rodimus says. “I’m the Captain. Can’t leave it to you to do all the rescuing, can I?”

Ratchet snorts. “As long as you’re not doing it alone, what kind of pack job do you call that?”

“Er,” Rodimus says, looking at what is, to him, frankly ridiculous amount of energon surrounding him.

Ratchet sighs and pulls a packet from out of his subspace. “I brought some extra medical grade, and some of the higher density stuff, so it can fit in that mess you call a subspace.”

“Hey, what can I say?” Rodimus says. “Street brats never forget.”

Ratchet huffs, and passes some of the energon over to Rodimus, to wrap up with the rest of the pack.

“So you’re ready to leave? Have you told Optimus? Because I really don’t need another argument before we can get out of here -” Rodimus pinches the bridge of his nose. “I yelled at _Optimus Prime,_ fuck -”

“Welcome to the club, kid,” Ratchet crosses his arms. “Optimus or no, you can’t just leave now.”

Rodimus frowns at him. “Why _not?”_

“What, you’re just going to drive off, in the dark? Crash yourself into one of those ravines out there? Yeah, that’ll do Drift a lot of good.”

“Hey,” Rodimus says. “I know you’re always going on about how you’re older than the rest of us, but we do all have driving sensors, and these things called headlights, in case you forgot how to use them.”

“Oh, so you won’t miss tire tracks, or - or paint scrapings, in the dark, huh? Your headlights are that good?” Ratchet says, “C’mon, kid. The way things are going here, it’ll be light again in a few hours. Do this right.”

“I am,” Rodimus says, and he doesn’t know how much of the way his insides are twisted up in agony is written across his face. “Ratchet, I - I’m going to do this right - for him - this time. I know I screwed up, I know I don’t -”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ratchet puts an arm around Rodimus’s shoulders, and Rodimus realizes his own shoulders are shaking. “You’re not alone, kid.”

Rodimus turns around and throws his arms around Ratchet, tucking his head against his chest, and hanging on for dear life.

Ratchet hugs him back, after a moment. “Hey,” he says, and they both ignore the way his voice shakes. “Dumb kid probably - probably got whisked off to sip good engex with the fraggin’ Knights,” he says, with a weak attempt at a huff, “making us all worry.”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, with a small smile hidden against Ratchet’s plating, his grip tight on Ratchet’s shoulders. “We’re gonna get him back. I promise.”

“I know,” Ratchet says, and Rodimus can feel him say it from where Ratchet’s chin is tucked against his helm. “C’mon, let’s finish this up, if we’re going to go gallivanting across the planet I’ll need at least a few minutes of recharge.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Rodimus says. He doesn’t move, and neither does Ratchet.

\---

Rodimus finishes wrapping the last of the supplies and tucks them into his subspace, jostling another bag and several scrap pieces of metal close to the edge, already inside. He stands up, alone in the temporarily shelter, as Ratchet has gone off to pick up a few more medical supplies that he _insisted_ they needed.

The tightness running through his insides has loosened, though a part of him still wants to drive out of here _now_ \- his engine hums and his wheels twitch at the thought - but the thought of not driving alone eases some of the clenched feeling in his spark.

He should lie down and try to recharge, that’s what Ratchet would say, but the idea of staying still makes his lines feel like they are about to overheat. He can’t sleep, not with Drift out there.

The knock on the outside of the shelter comes as a welcome relief, and he immediately turns, only to be faced with Ultra Magnus’s legs through the entrance.

He steps outside, instead, where he can actually see Ultra Magnus, rather than trying to squeeze him into the temporary shelter.

“Hey,” Rodimus says. “You’re looking ready for a fight.”

“It does not seem likely that whatever party is responsible for taking Drift will be friendly.” Magnus looks down at his hands. “I felt that it was reasonable to be optimally prepared for combat.”  

“Huh, okay -- wait, what?” Rodimus says, “No, you’re - you’re not coming _with_ me -”

“Yes, I am.”

“You - you have to find the Knights. With _Optimus._ You’ve - come all this way. You - you don’t even -”

“Drift is a member of my crew.” Magnus says. “And you are my Captain.”

Rodimus stares at him. Then, restraining himself from - well, something more _Rodimus_ at the very least, ‘one’ is probably enough people to fling his arms around for today, not in the least because that would probably alarm Ultra Magnus - he simply reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm.

“I’m not ordering you to do this.”

“You did not need to order me to follow you when we began this quest.” Magnus says, after a moment’s pause. “You do not need to order me now. I will come with you. That is my choice.”

It takes a minute to be able to form words through the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he says, gripping Magnus’s arm.

Magnus simply nods.

\---

Rodimus paces.

It’s supposed to be light in a couple of hours, but ‘a couple of hours’ is _so long._ He checks his internal chronometer again, but it’s only been three minutes.

An engine revs outside, and Rodimus spins around - it almost -

But it wasn’t Drift’s engine, he realizes quickly, no matter how much he wanted it to be. If Drift could just - could just walk through the door -

Maybe if they got into a really bad fight, Rodimus reasons, Drift would have a vision of it, wherever he is, and then he’d - he’d get out and he’d come back and he’d drop back down on them and save the day, and then he’d be back, and everything would be okay.

Ratchet’s attempted joke about engex with the Knights is probably more likely than that.

Nights before had never been this bad. When Drift had been gone before - yeah, he’d had plenty of nights without recharge, or where he’d woken up from a nightmare that was half fragments of Vector Sigma and half wholly-imagined scenarios of Drift’s death, any one of the million and one ways the universe could shake out against a lone Cybertronian.

But at least then - Drift had made a choice, as much as Rodimus had wanted to take the fall himself, or at the very least let Drift stay and weld rivets as ‘punishment’. Drift had been prepared, with a shuttle and supplies. He’d had a choice in where he went, even if, knowing Drift, that was often enough ‘headlong into trouble’ - not that Rodimus can judge, it’s why they - they -

This wasn’t then. Now? Drift was just gone. Taken.

He knew, at least, something of where to start - they had a rough idea of the distance they had travelled during the storm, and where they had been, which gave them some parameters. Weak as they were - it was still only one planet, better than trying to search an entire galaxy.

It’s cold comfort, especially when he doesn’t know what’s _happening_ to Drift, where he is, if he’s -

There’s one thing the same as last time, though. It’s still Rodimus’s fault.

That’s not right, he considers. There’s a second thing: Drift is going to come back.

They are going to get him back.

He has Ultra Magnus and Ratchet with him, and that - that lightens his spark. Magnus’s eye for detail will be sure to find whatever sign there is of where Drift was taken, and between him and Rodimus, they’ll have the brawn to take on whatever tries to get between the three of them and Drift. And Ratchet - if anything’s wrong, if anything’s been done to Drift, Ratchet can fix it.

They can do this.

He looks up, and the sky has gotten brighter.

\---

Rodimus drives out of the shelter, and starts to look for Ratchet and Ultra Magnus on the outside of camp. When he sees a tall figure that isn’t Ultra Magnus stepping out of one of the larger shelters, he panics for a split-second, thinking Optimus is back again to try and talk him out of going.

But it’s not Optimus, it’s Roller. And as he looks around the camp, he sees others emerging from the shelters and walking towards him - Perceptor, Chromedome and Rewind, Anode and Lug, Swerve, Rung, Velocity, Cyclonus and Tailgate, and -

Ultra Magnus is there, and then Ratchet, with a satisfied expression that makes Rodimus think that he was somehow responsible for all of this.

“Well,” Rodimus says, “I didn’t expect to have this kind of crowd to see us off.”

Ratchet grins, and Cyclonus steps forward. “We are not here to watch you leave.” He says. “We are here to find Drift.”

“You’re -” He starts, _“All_ of you?”

It’s not a small crowd - even _Thunderclash_ is there, much to his annoyance - and though it’s certainly not the full crew complement of the Lost Light, it’s a group that has expanded, at the edges, beyond the Rodsquad. The expanded Rodsquad, he could say, which is currently filled with a mixture of nodding and shouting assent.

“But you -” He looks around. “You all - you came to find the Knights. You all can’t - you really -”

And Rung speaks up, and his words are familiar. “This has never been about the Knights. It’s about us.” He says, and adds, “Drift is one of us.”

“I - I still - you can’t - you can’t all do this. I - I can’t ask you to do this.”

The group is silent for a moment, and then Swerve steps forward.

“You - you and Drift started this quest to find the Knights of Cybertron. And - that’s important. To a lot of us.” He looks at Cyclonus. “But more than that, for most of us - we came because we needed a fresh start. Because we didn’t think there was anywhere we belonged. And - we - all of us here, we found that on the Lost Light. You gave us that. And Drift is a part of that. If you think you can bring him home, then - we’re coming with you, Captain.”

“They’re all supplied,” Ratchet says. “We’re all with you.”

He looks at them, and he can’t say anything, his spark feels overbright, like it’s taking up his whole chest and further, up into his throat. He looks around at these people, _his_ people, and his optics feel wet. He’s not alone. Drift’s not alone.

_Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry_

“Alright.” He says, “Let’s bring him home.”

\---

**_Then_ **

“Okay, you can look now.”

Rodimus activates his optics, then resets them, then resets them again. “Drift, you got us our own _shuttle?!_ ”

“Not that one.” Drift grins. “Over there.”

“But there’s - oh. That’s a - Primus, Drift, you -?”

Drift’s grin widens at Rodimus’s expression, and he nods.

Rodimus bounces up and down, drumming his hands on his legs. “Wow. Oh, wow. Wow.”

“Quantum engines, and holds about three hundred crew.”

“Wow. Wow.” Rodimus stares at the ship. “What’s it called? You’re grinning,” He adds, looking at Drift. “I know you’ve got a great name, _c’mon c’mon c’mon_ , spill.”

“Lost Light,” Drift says. “I named it the Lost Light.”

 _“Lost Light,”_ Rodimus repeats. “It’s good. It’s really good, Drift - wait, you said three _hundred?_ Like - like _three hundred?”_

“Three hundred like one bigger than two hundred and ninety-nine, three hundred, yep.” Drift says, and Rodimus elbows him. “At least according to the folks who sold it to me.”

“‘Bee’s going to freak.” Rodimus looks back up at the ship. “This is, officially, the second coolest thing I have seen, ever.”

“Oh yeah?” Drift says. “Only second?”

“Mm-hm!” Rodimus says, beaming and rocking back on his heels.

“What takes first?”

“Oh, just this guy, white and red, _liiiitle_ bit shorter than me, got about 14 swords at all times -”

“Oh, Primus, you’ve been talking to Pipes,”

“- just bought us the coolest ship _ever._ ” Rodimus grins, bouncing up and down next to Drift, and looking over at him to check before he swings his arm enthusiastically around Drift’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s check it out - I want the tour, I want to see everything.”

Drift swings an arm around Rodimus as they head towards the ship.

“Three _hundred_ people,” Rodimus continues, as they walk.

“Wondering who will come with us?”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, “Yeah. Ship like this? I think we’re going to have a really great crew. And,” he adds, grinning at Drift, “it’s already off to a pretty great start.”

Drift grins back, and they walk up the landing ramp together.

\---

**_Now_ **

Drift wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are few events referenced in here that are from IDW continuity prior to MTMTE/Lost Light, and if you want to know a few more details on them, that can be found here! I'll do them chapter by chapter wherever additional stuff comes up. http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/176901852119/meet-in-the-middle-ch1-references


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: The gang has reached Cyberutopia, Drift's been lost in a definitely-not-ominous storm, and to find him, Rodimus has gone haring off on a sidequest. Must be Tuesday.  
> Rodimus joined the 'yelled at Optimus Prime' club, Ratchet finally got a hug, and the extended Rodsquad set off to find Drift, because you will pry found family tropes from this author's cold, dead hands. Oh, and Drift woke up.
> 
> Chapter Songs: Don't Judge Me - Janelle Monae, The Ring Goes South - Howard Shore, Eden - Sara Bareilles, The Bridge of Khazad Dum - Howard Shore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last four tags are very much in full effect for this chapter, and as a direct result of those there's an issue specifically with informed consent with some making-out in a couple scenes at the beginning of this chapter. If more details would be useful to you in deciding if you want to skip any scenes, or if you would like more details about the last four tags in the context of this chapter, go ahead and jump to the end notes. Otherwise, have at it, ‘cause the weirdness is about to start up in earnest.

Drift wakes up.

_Where am I?_

He feels Rodimus’s field as awareness starts coming back to him. He must be in Rodimus’s quarters, but this isn’t - it isn’t right, this isn’t the Lost Light. They’re not on the Lost Light, they got off the Lost Light, but he can’t remember - he - something happened -

He’s on a recharge slab. There wasn’t one where - but he’s not on the Lost Light -

Rodimus’s helm, red and gold, is pressed up against his shoulder -

_Did we fall asleep watching a vid? But how did I -_

“Mm, morning sleepyhead,” Rodimus says, and it feels like the question slips right out of his mind.  

Rodimus rolls over onto his side and presses a kiss to the corner of Drift’s mouth, then considers Drift and props himself up further so he can lean across Drift’s chest and kiss him soundly.

And, not that he’s complaining, but this is - new, and he feels like -

 _Where_ am _I?_

\- he’s missing something - he’s -

And Rodimus is kissing him, and he’s dreaming, that must be it, Primus knows he’d dreamed of this enough, though it doesn’t feel like -

It feels like he’s floating, like he’s drunk but in the best way -

\- _did I drink too much last night? Is that why I - no, I wouldn’t -_

\- like he’s drinking Rodimus in, and he has the smooth burn of good engex, and where he’s touching Drift his own plating warms with the steady heat of a banked fire, and Drift’s chest burns - almost like he can feel the tug on his spark from Rodimus’s, so close, like Rodimus is pulling him in, and Drift kisses back because he wants this, because distantly his processor is reassuring him that there’s no gap, that he’s supposed to be here, that he knows where he is, of course he knows where he is, he’s -

He kisses Rodimus back, tries to lean up into the kiss, but Rodimus pushes his shoulders back against the slab, breaking the kiss and swinging a leg over Drift’s hips so that he can lean all the way down and kiss Drift back into the slab, and Drift -

\- _this isn’t_ -

\- drinks him in, curling his arms up to run his hands along Rodimus’s spoiler, as if he can pull him even further down, even closer, and alleviate the burning in his spark, he _wants_ -

_Where am I?_

“Rodimus,” he says, when Rodimus pulls back just a fraction, still close enough that Drift’s lips are practically moving against his. “I’m -” He tries his best to smile, to not seem like he’s panicking, “Uh, where are we?”

Rodimus smiles and kisses Drift again before responding. “Where are we? Drift, we’re home. We’re in Cyberutopia.”

\---

Rodimus wishes they could go faster.

Perceptor has calculated where the edge of the storm had been, and they’ve finally reached it. He’s left calculating the exact search patterns to Ultra Magnus and Perceptor, but when it comes time to divide into teams, he’s surprised to find Cyclonus joining him.

Unsurprisingly, this means that much of the trip along their search pattern is silent. He has to force himself to slow down to make sure he doesn’t miss some vital clue - a tire track on the metal, a score mark from a sword - and he leaves plenty of skid marks of his own every time he thinks he sees something that turns out to be only an odd reflection, or an entirely different set of tire prints from their initial journey.

He flips out of his alt mode to scramble up a small raised portion of the regularly carved surface to investigate what looked for a moment like one of Drift’s sword hilts - but it’s just a shadow.

He slides back down to rejoin Cyclonus, who has also resumed his primary mode, and is staring out at the landscape. All three suns are in the sky now - at least that’s one reminder of home.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Cyclonus says.

“I know.” Rodimus says.

“I wanted -” Cyclonus says, still looking off into the distance, and then stops. “I wanted to see - Cybertron in the Golden Age again. My Cybertron. I wanted,” He adds, “to show Tailgate. I -” he stops, dipping his head slightly.

“I’m sorry.” He says. He would say he understood, but - he doesn’t. He doesn’t have the kind of memories of Cybertron that Cyclonus does. His best memories of Cybertron before the war - his best memories of _Nyon_? They were underground racetracks in a blur of motion, or stolen moments of laughter with Slinger, when he wasn’t worrying about when the next patrol was coming through or where his next cube of Energon was coming from - back when those were the worst of their worries.

If he tried to say what he wanted Cyberutopia to be, he could say that he was looking for what Nyon should have been, the Nyon that the old timers claimed they knew, the Nyon that people like Shutter thought could be brought back, if only people understood what was happening, if only they did something, if only they stopped it.

He has no idea what that Nyon looks like, as hard as he tries to believe that it _did_ exist.

What had he wanted Cyberutopia to be? He’d wanted it to be - he’d wanted the _Knights_ to be - something that would prevent what happened to Nyon from ever happening again.

But first he’d wanted it to be a place where his crew would be happy. Cyclonus isn’t.

“Rodimus,” Cyclonus says, not looking at him.

“Yeah?”

Cyclonus stares out at the horizon for another moment. “If there is anyone on this ship whose faith can carry them through,” he says, nodding his head to the barren landscape. “I would count Drift in that number.”

“Cyclonus,” he starts, and stops, not quite sure how to respond to that. “Thank you.”

Cyclonus nods, and doesn’t say anything else before he shifts back into alt-mode and resumes his flight. Rodimus looks out at the horizon, alone, for just another moment.  

Drift is gone.

\---

“I’m - home?”

Rodimus smiles down at him. “Where else would you be?” He says, and kisses Drift indulgently, and Drift would really prefer not to be asking questions.

Drift reaches up and strokes his fingers along Rodimus’s chevron, just marvelling at it, at _this,_ at -

“Cyberutopia?” He asks, a little bit of his processor stuttering back to life, “We’re _home_ on - we’re not on the Lost Light?”

Rodimus leans back a little further, looking concerned, and Drift stares at his helm, because there’s something -  “Drift, we haven’t been on the Lost Light in years. Are you feeling alright?” Rodimus runs a hand over Drift’s forehead, strokes up along a finial, and Drift is definitely feeling more than alright, he just -

\- he’s missing something, he’s missing more than something, he doesn’t know -

\- but he does know, of course he knows, of course he’s home, he knows exactly -

\- _this isn’t ri-_

“How - what is -” Drift shakes his head slightly, trying to push himself back up again.

“Oh, Drift,” Rodimus leans in and kisses him gently, and Drift seriously considers throwing himself back down and going with it until he wakes up from the exceptionally good dream this _has_ to be.

“Rodimus -” He says, instead, when Rodimus leans back, “I - I need you to tell me everything. I - just - explain. How -”

Rodimus smiles sadly at him, in a way that suggests the expression is, if not well-worn, certainly not the first time it’s cycled across his features. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I -” What _is_ the last thing he remembers?

_\- no no I won’t I can’t don’t_

_I won’t_

_no!_

_at the wrong end of his own blade, putting it through his own spark,_ burning _like nothing else could, it was the only way, he had to, he wouldn’t hurt them, not again, never -_

“Vector Sigma -” He blurts out.

“Vector Sigma?” Rodimus says, and he looks - alarmed. No, not alarmed, he’s just frowning, he’s just concerned, why did he think he looked - “Drift, Vector Sigma was - before the Lost Light.”

“No -” Drift says, shaking his head, “No, that’s not the last thing, I -” Why had he thought of Vector Sigma? There’s nothing here that could remind him of Vector Sigma - he certainly doesn’t have his _greatsword_ through his spark, he can’t even see his greatsword in the room, can’t feel it on his back -

_\- where is it - I wouldn’t leave it - it has to be - where -_

The hot tug on his spark pulled him back to Rodimus. “I remember the Lost Light. I -”

He remembers the Lost Light. He remembers Overlord. He remembers being cast out. He remembers Ratchet, and a would-be Empire of Stone. He remembers the Necroworld, and the Functionist Universe, and -

What _is_ the last thing he remembers? He can feel hazy edges of familiarity in this room - he feels like there _are_ memories here, he feels like he _does_ know how he got here, there’s no gap, everything’s -

\- _this isn’t right -_

Cyberutopia. They’re supposed to be - they are - on Cyberutopia. He -

He remembers Cyberutopia. He remembers getting to Cyberutopia, with it’s five close-orbiting moons and three suns and no lifesigns. He remembers landing. He remembers -

\- the storm -

What storm? There hadn’t been a storm, his processor reassures him. But he -

The room is familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and he stares at Rodimus to ground himself -

\- _not_ **_Rodimus_ ** _that’s not Rodimus -_

Where the hell had _that_ come from? Rodimus stares at him with concern, optics bright, nothing about those optics is _dead,_ what the hell is he thinking?

It must just be - whatever else is off about his helm, his frame - had he changed it in five years? Something’s unsettling him -

“I remember - getting to Cyberutopia.”

“Oh,” Rodimus says. “Okay. This is - yeah, okay.” He lets out a small, sad laugh. “This is going to be one of the bad ones.”

“One of the - Rodimus, what are you talking about, what’s -”

“Okay.” Rodimus says, “Just stay with me, alright?”

“I don’t - just - _explain_ , please.”

“Drift, we got to Cyberutopia five years ago.”

“Five - _what_?”

This isn’t a good dream.

Rodimus smiles weakly at him. “Hey, hey,” he runs his hands over Drift’s finals, his neck, his shoulders, leaning him back down, and there’s something off about his frame, it’s not right, it’s not what he remembers, but - “It’s okay. Just relax. I’ll talk you through it. Ratchet says it helps to - to talk through it, to help trigger the memories on their own.”

“Ratchet -” Drift pushes himself back up again. “Where’s Ratchet? What do you mean, he -”

“Shhhh,” Rodimus presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll explain, alright? And if you’re still having trouble with your memories then, we can go see Ratchet, he’ll want to know that you’ve had a spell again, anyway.”

Drift tries Ratchet’s comm frequency over his internal radio, because something here has to make sense, but - it isn’t there. He can’t radio. It’s not there.

“ _Rodimus_ -”

“Shhh, I know, sweetspark, just let me, alright -?” Rodimus says, smiling gently, and Drift feels his own spark hot in his chest. “We landed on Cyberutopia five years ago - you remember that. Then - well, we found the Knights.”

“And?”

“They judged you,” Rodimus says, and Drift immediately tenses. “I mean, I didn’t think they would but, ex-Decepticon and all. Once they said you were innocent -”

\- _this isn’t right -_

But there’s something there - something he thinks he remembers, a round chamber, a feeling of relief -

\- but no, that’s not -

“They - they judged -” He finally manages to stutter out.

Rodimus smiles and kisses him. “You’re absolved, Drift. It’s okay.”

The way his optics well up is -

Primus, he wants this to be real.

“Sweetspark?”

“Keep - keep going.” He says, through the lump in his throat.

Rodimus smiles. “Well - they named me Prime - formally, I mean - and, wow, I’m skipping over a lot, but - we repelled the invasion - the Knights and the crew - you were badass, I was _very_ badass, and -” He waves an arm around at the room. “We’ve been here ever since.”

“We -?”

“Well, the Lost Light crew, obviously, but - folks from Cybertron have been coming here ever since the invasion ended, trying to find a better place. And,” he adds, with a grin, “I’d say I haven’t done too badly for them. We,” He leans forward and kisses Drift. “Haven’t done too badly for them.”

“We -” Drift - there’s an image in his head of ships landing on the surface, another image of a surface crowded with people, he - “I -?”

Rodimus smiles teasingly and kisses the tip of Drift’s nose. “Well, I’m the Prime, of course, and you - you’re the First Disciple, but that - you’re the teacher. Kind of a guide. Every time new people arrive, you’re the first person to teach them about the Knights, and - well, train them. Make sure they're ready, teach them how to live here.”

 _Like Wing._  He thinks, and there’s a lump in his throat that has nothing to do with the way his spark is burning.

“Huh, what else - we went out with Minimus and Ratchet last night, and we met up with Cyclonus and Tailgate,” Rodimus looks at him. “Anything?”

He feels like he remembers - something. An image of Rodimus in a temple, of a group of trainees, none with clear faces, in lines in front of him.

\- _no - I should remember - I should remember more - why can’t  -_

_\- this isn’t -_

“I -”

Rodimus looks so - sad, and deeply resigned, but he’s still trying to smile as he runs a hand distractedly along Drift’s finial.

“Something? There’s something. I’m -” Drift rubs at his forehead. “I should - I should talk to Ratchet. I -”

“Mmm,” Rodimus looks at him, and leans back down and kisses him, softly, before it melts into something slow and deep, and Drift drinks it in, like Rodimus is air -

\- he’s oxygen on the fire in his spark, this - there’s something wro-

“Rodimus -”

Rodimus leans back with one last peck on Drift’s lips, and Drift resists the urge to chase after Rodimus’s mouth. For a moment his optics look -

 _-_ **_not_ ** _Rodimus -_

\- glazed, the look he gets when he’s checking his internal readouts. “Ah - I should get to the temple.” Rodimus says, “I’ll drop you with Ratchet along the way - I’ll let them know you won’t be able to make classes today?” He looks at Drift, as though he’s hoping Drift will say no, that he’s fine - and Drift wants to, because he’s - this is fine, this is -

_\- this isn’t right -_

“Yeah,” He says, “Let’s - let’s go see Ratchet.”

\---

The call from Ratchet couldn’t come at a better time.

Rodimus spins away from his latest false lead, towards the coordinates Ratchet gives him. Ratchet had said - something, about the details of what they were looking at, but it doesn’t quite register, Rodimus hears ‘Drift’ and he goes, Cyclonus flying above him.

He doesn’t slow down until he sees Ultra Magnus’s silhouette come into focus and he can see the red and white of Ratchet’s frame on the horizon - and there’s a split second where he hopes he’ll see Drift, standing beside Ratchet, but no one’s there.

“What is it? What did you -?”

Cyclonus lands next to him, and as Rodimus steps closer to Ratchet, he sees what Ratchet is gesturing towards - a scrape of white paint on the metal outcropping, with a streak of red on the outside.

He almost doesn’t notice when Nightbeat rolls up next to him, with other members of the crew gathering around. Nightbeat reaches out and scrapes off one of the paint flakes to examine it; Rodimus doesn’t need a closer look to know it came from Drift. He stares around, looking for any other signs - signs of a struggle, gouges in the metal that could have come from Drift’s swords - but there’s nothing, and a sinking feeling tells him that Drift hadn’t been conscious when the paint had been scraped off his frame.

Ultra Magnus is a few meters away, examining the edge of a large crevasse. He calls back to the others, “This was not present when we came through the storm,” he says, adding, “I would have noted it to warn the crew.”

Rodimus jogs over to look at it with him. “That’s - huh. Canyons don’t just come up out of nowhere.”

“I think this one did,” Nightbeat says, kneeling down by the edge of the canyon. “Look at this -”  He points down to long, but shallow, almost unnoticeable scrapes in the metal, “it looks like part of the surface pulled back to open up this gap, and recently too. But,” he adds, “There’s more than one layer of the marks, see? It looks like it opened up, and then started to close again,”

“But not all the way,” Ratchet says, staring down into the crevasse with a frown.

Rodimus looks over at Ratchet. “What are you thinking?”

Ratchet grimaces. “Nothing good.”

Nightbeat turns to discuss his findings with the newly arrived Nautica. While they’re focused in conversation about science or magic or something, Rodimus reaches into his subspace and, after a few moments, finds a fist-sized piece of scrap metal. It’s dented and banged up beyond a reasonable point of usefulness, but there’s still a twinge of regret when he chucks it into the middle of the crevasse.

A moment goes by. Then several moments.

He doesn’t hear it land.

“Huh.”

Ratchet leans over to peer over the edge with him.

“Still not thinking anything good?”

“Worse.”

“We’re going to have to go down there, aren’t we?”

Ratchet glares down into the abyss like it had just showed up at his door with a pamphlet about Primus. “Cyberutopia my _ass_.”

Rodimus grins, almost in spite of himself. “You know, when we - when we find him sipping engex with the Knights, he’s gonna laugh at you _so hard._ ”

“ _Idiot._ ” Ratchet mutters towards the abyss, with absurd fondness, and Rodimus laughs. “Brat,” he adds, with a snort in Rodimus’s direction.

“C’mon,” Rodimus says, “Let’s get the rest of the crew.”

\---

“Ratchet -” Drift says, finally, when they reach the inside of - he keeps assuming it’s Ratchet’s clinic, even though Rodimus hasn’t called it that, even though the further he gets inside the more different it seems.

Ratchet looks up at him, and it’s - a relief. “Memory problems again?”

“I - yeah.” He turns around to look at Rodimus for confirmation, but he’s disappeared.

Ratchet sighs. “Alright, grab a seat.” He says, waving to one of the medical berths, and Drift is too relieved to do anything but silently comply.

“I tried to radio you,” He finally says, as Ratchet peers into his optics, and he looks back at Ratchet, and there’s something about his helm, the colors - “But it didn’t work. Why -?”

“Not much need for radios here,” Ratchet says. “not a whole lot of emergencies to deal with, and the like. So -” He shrugs.

“But -” That doesn’t make _sense._ “But I - this happens often?”

“Not too often,” Ratchet says.

“But - I -” Drift starts, then stops for a moment. “It would be good to be able to call someone. Call you, so you can check and make sure -”

“Hasn’t really happened often enough for that.”

“ _How_ often is ‘not too often’?” Drift snaps, frustrated, because Ratchet should - should have his damn case file out by now, if this was - but then he closes his mouth. “I’m sorry, I - I’m just really - ”

“Lost.” Ratchet says. “Yeah. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Landing on Cyberutopia.” Drift says, again. “I - Rodimus said this was one of the bad ones.”

Ratchet nods. “You lost a lot. Lie down,” He says, and Drift does, as Ratchet slides another device - not one he recognizes - over his head. “But - unless something’s cropped up in your processor that’s new - it should come back over time. Just -” He adjusts something on the machine, “- want to make sure.”

“Rodimus said - he said I lost five years.” Ratchet hmm-s an affirmative. “Ratchet -” He almost stops himself from asking the question - but - but if this is all going to come back, he wants to know. “I - when did Rodimus and I become conjunx?”

He can’t see Ratchet’s face through the device covering his own head, but the silence terrifies him. “You’re not.” Ratchet says finally, and then slides the device off of his head.

“What?”

Ratchet looks at him, confused - and it’s not a ‘Drift’s an idiot who’s going on about crystals and not making any sense’ kind of look, he seems genuinely bemused. “It’s not - that important.”

“ _What?_ ”

Ratchet huffs. “Keep forgetting you’re still thinking about the Lost Light.” He says. “Rodimus is the Prime, you’re the First Disciple. That’s what’s most important.” He looks at Drift, like he’s expecting Drift to agree with him. Drift doesn’t say anything. “Formalizing anything beyond that - it’s just not - a priority.”

“But we are -”

“Yeah, after the invasion, if you’re going to get hung up on it.” Ratchet says, jotting something down on a tablet.

“Oh,” Drift says, and then his engine stalls as he thinks of something else. “Ratchet, I - we are - are we amicas?”

Ratchet looks -

_angry_

\- tired, and frustrated. “No,” He says, “Why would we be?”

Ratchet could have slapped him; it would have hurt less.

“Because - you - you’re - I - ”

_this isn’t right!_

Ratchet sighs. “I don’t mean -” He shakes his head. “‘Elective kinship, it’s just - it’s not important anymore. We don’t need it. It’s not - “

“It’s not _important_ anymore?” Drift splutters. “I - I’ve sat through _half hour long_ **_rants_ ** from you about how hard you worked to make sure all forms of elective kinship were - were treated equally and _fairly_ at the Medical centers in Iacon, for - for next of kin arrangements, for _medical decisions_ . You had _horror stories,_ and now you’re telling me - you’re telling me we don’t _need it?_ ”

It’s not _important?_ No. No way. He refuses to accept that.

His spark hurts, burning - it’s not Rodimus now, it can’t be - and if he thinks about it, it hasn’t - it hasn’t fully gone away since he -

“It’s Cyberutopia, Drift. Things are different.”

“So it really is Cyberutopia.” Drift says, half teasing, looking for _some_ solid ground to push off of, there has to be _something -_

When he says it, Ratchet gets this - frankly, unnatural - look of - of vague and distant contentment, optics glazed. “Yes, it is. We made it, Drift,” He adds. “We’re finally in the right place.”

Drift stares at him. “And - and you just,” He leans from side to side, trying to catch Ratchet biting back a smirk, because Ratchet is _clearly_ fucking with him. “You just _accepted_ that, when we landed? Went along with whatever the Knights said?”

“It’s what we’ve been looking for all along.” Ratchet says, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you?” Drift can barely think where to _start._ “Because - because you’re _Ratchet_ \- and you don’t - you don’t just - if - if someone told you they were Knights out of - out of ‘legend’, and that you should _listen_ to them, you’d - you’d tell them to _fuck off_ and - and demand ten million years worth of proof that’s fucking - replicable and - and - and ‘peer reviewed’, or -”

“Now that’s just ridiculous.” Ratchet scoffs.

“What happened to ‘extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence’? What happened to - to ‘burden of proof,’ to -”

“They showed us proof of the Guiding Hand. Drift, do you really - is none of this coming back to -?”

“Oh come on, the Guiding Hand? Really? You’re going to tell me you believe in _Primus_ now?” Drift grins, “Do you mess with me this much _every_ time I lose my memory?”

There’s a twitch of anger, unmistakable, on Ratchet’s face, just as Drift says _Primus,_ but it’s gone in a flicker. “Of course I believe in Primus, Drift, we live on Cyberutopia, how could I not?” Ratchet looks at him, “I thought you’d be happy that -”

“Stop it - just -” Drift tries to restrain himself from shouting -

_Why aren’t I happy I should be happy why can’t I be happy I don’t_

_too broken to be happy nothing I can_

“ - just - just stop it, alright, stop - stop messing with me, I -” Drift tries to slow his words down, tries to practice the kind of self-regulation his meditations have taught him “I just - I just need you to be Ratchet. I know this - this has happened before for you but it’s - this is - this is new for me and, I lost five years, Ratchet, and I don’t know why, and you - I just - ”

“Hey, hey,” Ratchet says, moving over to stand by Drift. “It’s okay, I know this is - a lot, but there’s nothing else wrong with your processor. The scan turned up clean. Everything should come back to you by tomorrow. It’s okay.”

Drift leans over, his shoulders hunched tight, until he hits up against Ratchet’s plating, still there, still solid. “My spark hurts.” He says, quietly.

He can feel Ratchet’s plating twitch when he says it, and there’s - there’s something off about his frame, something he almost recognizes, but it seems to slip away. After a moment, Ratchet says, “It’s alright. Your spark and your brain are connected, when - when one of these is this bad, it usually - affects your spark. The pain will - it will go away, with the disorientation.”

“Okay,” Drift says, “Okay,”

“You’re going to be fine, kid.” Ratchet says, “I’m glad you checked in. You should walk around some, that should help bring things back. Only so many times you get to see how happy everyone is here for the first time. _Drift you need to wake up._ ”

“What?” Drift starts away from where he’s been leaning on Ratchet, leaning back so he can look Ratchet it in the face. “I -”

Ratchet just looks vaguely bemused at his shocked expression. “I said, only so many times you get to see how happy everyone is here for the first time.”

“But you -”

_this isn’t right_

“You’re right.” Drift says, “I should - get out of here, I - should see the sights, talk to - to people.”

“Drift, are you -?”

“I’m fine! You’re right, I’ll be fine, I just - need to let it all come back. I think just - just talking to you is bringing some of it back, so if I - if I go talk to other people, that’ll be better. Where’s - where’s - Percy, do you know where Perceptor is?”

“Er -” Ratchet’s optics glaze over. “Yes, here -” he hands Drift a tablet. “This should take you right to him.”

“Great - I - yeah. Thanks, Ratchet!”

Percy. Percy had to be able to make sense of all of this. He had to.

_I thought you’d be happy -_

He will be. He has to be. He just has to - has to know -

_this isn’t right!_

It’s fine.

\---

Rodimus paces back and forth down the trench.

Their progress down the crevasse has been - _temporarily_ \- halted by landing on solid ground. The trench is wider than the initial crevasse, leaving them with a narrow sliver of light above - much dimmer now that they’ve gotten so far down - between two shadowed overhangs. There’s a groove on the floor, suggesting that two sections may have closed underneath. The crew is hunting for signs of Drift along the trench, but Rodimus has a bad feeling that the way to Drift is most likely on the other side of those closed plates.

Rodimus considers lighting his arm on fire and trying to use that to melt through the groove in the metal. He looks around - Brainstorm could probably tell him if that would work, and if it wouldn’t, would figure out an even fiery-er way to get through - but Brainstorm’s moved from a conversation with Perceptor to investigate something that Nightbeat and Nautica have pointed out.

He walks over to Perceptor anyway - he’s still deep in doing some kind of science and/or magic on the wall.

“Anything?”

“This metal’s composition is - not dissimilar from common metals on Cybertron,”  Perceptor says, “But it seems to be particularly difficult to damage.”

“So…” Rodimus considers. “We can’t just blast our way through?”

“To my understanding, that is correct.”

“Well,” Rodimus says. “That sucks.”

Perceptor pauses for a moment, staring at the wall. “Yes.”

He leans back against the wall and watches Perceptor. After a few moments he starts to realize that this is at least the second time he’s watched Percy run through the same sequence of - whatever he was doing with the gadget he had pressed up against the wall.

“Percy,” He starts, “You alright?”

Perceptor doesn’t look at him. “The equipment is performing adequately.”

“Wasn’t asking about the equipment.” Rodimus says, a little wry. Perceptor doesn’t say anything. “It’s okay if you’re worried about him, you know. I think we all are. I know I am.” He adds.

“Drift -” Perceptor finally looks up from his device - not at Rodimus, at the wall, but it’s something. “Drift is a talented and accomplished swordfighter, and he is - a very capable survivor.” He says, and Rodimus nods. “And there is significant talent on this crew,” He says, tilting his head slightly towards Brainstorm, Nightbeat, and Nautica, still conferring over another part of the wall. “I have no doubt that we will be able to locate Drift.” He recites.

Rodimus can’t help but smile. They’re all a terrible batch of liars, especially to themselves.

“Yeah we will,” Rodimus says, “Just think, after this, you two will be even on rescues, huh?”

There - that’s _almost_ a smile, he’s sure of it. “Yes.” Perceptor says, “That is true,”

“Just like old times,” Rodimus says, “I still owe you one, don’t I?”

“I think you’re doing well towards repaying it.” Perceptor says.

“Hey, you don’t need to let me off that easy.” Rodimus says, “Wish we had Kup with us, though. Bet he’d have some story about a crazy place like this.”

Before Perceptor can respond, Ultra Magnus returns from further down the trench.

“Rewind has located another tunnel,” he says, “it appears to lead further down, though there does not appear to be any sign of Drift.”

Rodimus looks at Perceptor. “Think you’re up for some more science? If you can pry yourself away from _this_ science, that is,” he teases.

“I think I could manage,” Perceptor says, and Rodimus grins.

\---

“Percy?”

“Drift!” Perceptor smiles when he sees Drift - it’s startling. “Shouldn’t you be at the Temple?”

“I -” Drift starts, “I’m not -”

“Oh,” Perceptor says. “One of those.”

“Why is this _happening_?” Drift bursts out. “I don’t - no one - is it something to do with what happened in Vector Sigma?”

“Why would it have anything to do with Vector Sigma?” Perceptor snaps, looking - alarmed.

“I - I don’t know.” Drift says. “I - when I woke up, I was remembering Vector Sigma, for - some reason. I just - it’s nothing, it’s just that no one’s explained why this is happening.”

“Oh, that,” Perceptor says. “It seems like it has to do with an underlying glitch in your processor.”

“But I never - I haven’t had memory loss like this before.”

“Cyberutopia brings everyone closer to how they were made.”

“But - it’s - shouldn’t the Knights know how to fix it? So I don’t have to go through - this. Shouldn’t - Ratchet, or you, or Brainstorm be able to -”

“Why would the Knights fix it? It’s part of how you were made, so it is a part of what you were made for.” Perceptor says. “Every part of the frame you have is part of what you were made for.”

And Drift looks down, and it seems like his optics can finally focus, because his frame - it’s his old frame. Not from before he’d left the Lost Light, from -

From the Dead End. From Rodion.

But it’s not exactly the same. Guns are built into his arms, like - like when he was Deadlock.

An when he looks back up at Perceptor, he realizes that his frame isn’t the one he knows either, it’s - it’s an old frame, though it still has Percy’s sniper components, which hadn’t come until -

“Cyberutopia restores all. As you were meant to be forged, complete. Perfected.”

And that’s when it hits him - that’s why Rodimus and Ratchet’s frames had seemed off, they were in their old frames. The frames they were forged in, but - ‘perfected’.

Old frames. That’s why Ratchet’s had seemed familiar.

But that’s - how had he not seen that, how had that - that difference, that dissonance slipped away so quickly?

Maybe it’s just that he had gotten used to them over five years, and it was - it was his memories coming back. Maybe everything’s -

“What about -” Drift starts to ask, because there has to be an explanation, they can’t just - do that to people - to Magnus, or Anode, to _him_ \- they can’t do that without -

The sheaths for his swords are gone, even the one on his back that holds his Greatsword, that’s why it isn’t there, why -

_this isn’t right_

“How do they do it?” He asks, changing his question. “I mean, even knowing what frames we were forged with is one thing, but I imagine the technology needed to recreate that must be pretty fascinating, right, Percy?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Perceptor says, “It’s the Hand’s work, it is far beyond my comprehension.”

“ _Your_ comprehension? I can’t believe _that_.” Drift teases. “I always figured you and Brainstorm could figure out anything together.”

“Hmm?” Perceptor seems distracted, “We should go to the Temple. That may help you understand.” Perceptor stands up and moves towards the door. “Many of your memories have been formed there, so it should help in restoring them.”

The temple -

Maybe a holy place _will_ help him understand, even when -

 _this is_ wrong

“Yes,” Drift says, following Perceptor out the door, “Yes, let’s - go to the Temple.”

The crowds surrounding their path to the temple are almost bursting with joy, their fields almost overwhelming, but when Drift tries to look at them - tries to look for the ‘perfections’ on their frames - the details seem to slide away.

The temple, though - the temple draws his eye immediately.

Wing had shown him a mural once, in the walls of Crystal City, that had been meant to depict Cyberutopia. This temple - it looks _exactly_ like the centerpiece of that mural. _Everything_ around them, he notes, looking past the people, bears an almost eerie resemblance to that mural.

Cyberutopia hadn’t looked like this when they’d landed, he remembers that much.

His spark is still burning.

Perceptor leads him up the temple steps - it feels like the crowds melt away the closer they get to the building itself.

He keeps expecting himself to feel at home, hoping that if he takes one more step, it will bring something rushing back. This place feels like it _should_ feel familiar - it’s like if he lets his processor slip, it will fall right into soft and easy grooves - but no memories come back to him.

Perceptor looks back at him with a slight frown. Drift shakes his head.

“Sometimes it takes time.” Perceptor says. “Why don’t we look in on the training grounds? Those will certainly be familiar.”

He follows Perceptor through a long corridor and to a large open space. They stand between two tall columns while what must be Drift’s substitute instructor - who looks almost like Axe - leads the gathered collection of Cybertronians - or are they Cyberutopians, now? - in a series of form drills with practice weapons.

The drill itself looks familiar, he knows he’s done it before, with Wing, and -

The memory is jammed into his processor, jarring him so badly he has to lean against one of the columns, but it is a memory, a memory of him being in front of one of these classes, of going through these motions - he can feel it in his limbs, in his whole body.

“Drift,”

For a moment, Drift assumes this is a gesture of concern from Perceptor, but then he realizes Perceptor isn’t even looking at him, he’s looking at something else entirely.

“Drift, look,” Perceptor continues. “One of the Knights has graced us with a visit to the lesson”

At first he isn’t sure what Perceptor is looking at, and then he sees the growing light from around a doorway, and then a figure emerges - not carrying the light with them, but glowing, glowing with light that, Drift’s processor says immediately, is unmistakably _holy_.

And he looks up at the blinding light, the light that obscures all else, and -

He feels nothing.

His spark is still burning.

He just wants the pain to stop.

Perceptor is still looking at the Knight, enraptured, until the figure finishes his short conversation with not-Axe, and moves back out of the courtyard.

“What a gift. The Knight’s don’t visit the training sessions often.” Perceptor says. “How fortunate that one could be here today, for you, when -

“Percy,” Drift says. “Where is Brainstorm?”

“Brainstorm?” Perceptor looks at him blankly. “Oh, you mean Genitus. He’s somewhere on the lower levels.”

“The _lower levels_?”

“Yes, of course. The war creations have important work to do.”

“But -” Drift stares at Perceptor’s nonplussed face.

_wrong wrong wrong wrong_

“I need to - go.” Drift says.

“Drift - “ Perceptor starts, reaching out an arm, but Drift practically sprints for the way out, not even waiting until he’s out of view to transform and speed away.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to -

He needs to find someone - anyone - who can - who -

He needs to get out of here.  

_Drift you need to wake up._

\---

“So,” Rodimus starts, “I see a problem.”

Ultra Magnus and Rodimus look at the new crevasse Rewind and Chromedome have identified. Looking at it, Rewind could fit through just fine. So could Rodimus. So could Chromedome, shoulders and all.

“Well,” Rodimus says, trying to inject a little levity into Magnus’s somber expression. “We’d have to leave Thunderclash behind.” This is by no means a downside.

Magnus frowns at him, but that means he’s frowning at him, and not looking vaguely distressed by the too-small size of the crevasse.

“Rodimus -” Magnus starts, in an all-too-familiar tone.

“I know, I know,” Rodimus says.

“I can leave the Magnus armor behind.” Magnus says.

“Yeah, but you don’t want to - do you?” Rodimus asks. “Honest question.”

“It seems that is the only way to move forward.”

“Maybe,” Rodimus admits. “I haven’t called everyone back in yet. Most of the others are still looking for a way down.”

“The Magnus armor is a significant tactical advantage,” Magnus starts, “but -”

“Wasn’t talking tactics.” Rodimus says. “You’re my second; do you want to do this?”

“I -” Ultra Magnus starts. “I want to find Drift, and see him returned safely. I do not want to delay that further.”

“We waited the night to start searching in daylight.” Rodimus says, “I think we can wait a few more minutes to see if someone finds a way in that lets us all get in unscathed.”

“Removing the Magnus armor won’t - hurt me.”

“Yeah, and you could strip my paint and technically not be hurting me either, doesn’t mean I want someone to do it.” Rodimus says. “You’ve got a couple frames, doesn’t mean they’re not all yours.”

“Three, technically.”

“You know what I mean.” Rodimus says. “If you want to go ahead with your - your Minimus armor, then we can do that. But -”

“And if this is the only way in?”

“You don’t have to follow me.” Rodimus says, “But if you do - hmm,” Rodimus raises his hands, measuring out pieces of Magnus’s frame. “Could probably fit it piece by piece, put it back on once there’s more space.”

“If you’re willing to wait -”

“Yeah.”

“I do want to find him.” Ultra Magnus says, after a pause. “I - do not want to delay.”

“I know.”

“Because he is crew. But, also, because, he’s,” Magnus considers, “he’s  a - a - fr - what’s the word?”

Rodimus thinks for a moment. “Friend?”

“That’s the one.”

Rodimus smiles, and puts a hand on Magnus’s arm. “Yeah.”

They step back from the crevasse. Further along, he can hear propellers turning.

“If you ended up breaking it down,” Rodimus considers, “Do you think Swerve’d be able to lift the Magnus helmet?”

“Under no circumstances will he be allowed to try.”

“Duly noted.”  

\---

Drift flees the temple.

He has to find - he has to find _someone_ who -

Something is very wrong, someone has to know that something is wrong -

His spark is burning.

Rewind? If - if he can find Rewind, Rewind will have recordings, he records everything, he can show him where it went wrong -

Chromedome - Chromedome could recover his memories, if Drift could persuade him to do it, if -

If either of them _knows_ something is wrong, if they’re here, if -

He sees a familiar shade of green - it takes him a moment to process, because it’s - lower than he expected it to be, it’s -

Magnus - Minimus - he’ll have a stack of reports a mile high, whatever’s happening here, he’ll know -

He darts into the crowd until he reaches Minimus - Minimus looks up at him just before Drift reaches him, and Drift can feel Minimus’s field muddled with confusion when Drift holds out a hand. Minimus takes it anyway, confusion and all, and Drift tugs him hastily out of the crowd - no one responding to his motion, even as he collides sidelong with several people, so forcefully that it should have taken off paint, but it doesn’t.

Drift finally stops when he’s managed to pull Minimus into an alleyway and into a corner, somewhere he’s sure they won’t be overheard.

He takes a moment, just looking down at Minimus. It feels wrong to be looking down at him - he’s never seen his irreducible form before. He had only known it existed because Rodimus had told him, when explaining what had happened with Tyrest - the parts that Ratchet had missed, at least. Drift’s gotten used to seeing him standing above or roughly on par with his own height, but he knows he’s never seen his irreducible form.

It’s not a good feeling. It’s - it seems like it must fit in with what Perceptor was saying, about Cyberutopia taking you back to how you were made, with the jarring alterations to his own frame. He’d feel better about Minimus helping him parse out what the hell is going on if he could see him as Drift knew him, if he could see that the time he’d lost had left at least one thing unchanged.

“Drift?” Minimus starts, “What’s going on, are you alright?”

“I - something’s wrong.” Drift says. “You - I need all your - your reports, your - from the past five years, I need to figure out -”

“My - what?” Minimus just looks - bemused.

“Your reports - your - your reports. You must have written - something.”

“There’s no need for me to keep records here,” Minimus looks at him. “Drift, are you - is this another memory lapse? Have you seen Ratchet?”

“I - it doesn’t - I talked to him, I’m - fine, I just need to know what’s happening,”

“Drift, I really think I should take you to -”

Drift shakes his head, “But - After we landed, the invasion, you must have - you must have written something - status reports, strategy, inventory - or - or when everyone got called here, you must have - written a memo, sent a message -”

“We haven’t had any need _Drift wake up_ to preserve those kinds of trivialities.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t really matter.”

“It doesn’t -!” Drift snaps.

This is _wrong._

“Drift, let me take you back to Ratchet, you sound -”

“Just -” Drift puts his hands on his helm and resets his optics. “Just - _tell me_ what is going on. Minimus - what -” Drift starts, “What - what are they working on, on the lower levels? What - what was I _training_ those people for?”

“The next phase, of course.”

_The next phase -_

_“They’re ready for the next phase, it’s time for you to deploy -”_

_“They’re ready for phase five -”_

_“They’re ready for phase six -_

_“The next phase -”_

He can’t stop hearing screams.

He doesn’t realize he’s dropped to the ground until red optics catch his attention, glowing above him, above him, he’s  -

“Drift -” Minimus starts, it’s his red optics glowing as he stands above him, reaching out to -

“ _Don’t touch me -_ ” Drift snarls. “Don’t touch me.”

“Drift -?”

“I’m - going. I’m going to go see Ratchet.”

He is not going to go see Ratchet. He has to get the hell out of here.

“No - I can - I know where he is.” Drift continues, waving Minimus off as he moves to follow Drift. He flips into his alt mode and flees through the crowd, bots seemingly leaping out of his way at unnatural speeds.

He won’t do this again.

He has to get out of here.

\---

They find another way in.

Thanks to Anode and Lug, they find an Ultra Magnus-sized tunnel - or, well, close enough, Magnus has to duck a bit, but it’s better than the previous route. And a good thing too, because after Chromedome and Rewind have had a chance to look around, they all returned to find that smaller passageway had been blocked, a seamless sheet of metal covering it.

This tunnel shows no signs of closing yet, but Rodimus still keeps checking over his shoulders for any signs that they might be losing light from the open entrance, leading the crew at speed through the tunnel, hoping they’ll come to some other open place, some sign of Drift.

When he hears the scraping sound, he assumes it’s because one of Magnus’s pipes has caught the ceiling again. When he looks back, he sees Magnus, head carefully ducked, also looking around for the source of the sound.

The scraping continues.

“Er, Rodimus -” He hears Lug say, and when he turns he sees her hop back from the wall as it moves closer to her. A loud clang from above - he looks up, and Magnus’s head has hit the ceiling, or, rather, the ceiling has hit Magnus.

Fuck.

He’s seen an Earth movie with a bit like this. “Magnus - try and brace the ceiling! Roller - Thunderclash - hold the walls! Everyone else, run for the -” And then he sees, further down the tunnel, a series of sliding panels start to come together, beginning to narrow their way forward.

He looks back at his crew - there’s no way they can all make it through in time, not that distance, not all of them. But looking back means he can still see the entrance to the tunnel, and that’s not closing - it’s perfectly still, he can see faint light.

“Run back! Turn around, go back!”

He sees them start to run, past Magnus, between Roller and Thunderclash. They’re close enough - they can get out -

He’s not losing anyone here, not today. Not this time. They can get out. They _will_ get out.

\---

Drift manages to find his way out of the crowded square into another side alley, far away from Minimus.

If he can find a place to hide, then - then, if he can just have a moment where he’s safe, he can - he can -

Memories jar in his brain, and he - he doesn’t want them anymore. Not like this. Not for this.

His spark burns.

He skids to a halt at the glare of light from the three suns - his back alley has shot him out into another open square, and he spots a familiar helm.

He tries to make for another way out of the square, but Ratchet catches up to him before he can make it.

“Drift!” Ratchet shouts, and he wants so badly to feel relieved that Ratchet is here, but this is all still wrong. “Drift, slow down!”

Drift pulls up to a stop - the exit he thought he was heading for isn’t there anymore.

“Drift -” Ratchet stops beside him. “Drift, just - Minimus called, he said you were still upset.”

“Thought we didn’t have radios.” Drift says weakly, up against the wall.

“Drift, please - just listen to us.” Ratchet says, and Drift can see First Aid coming up beside him, and Minimus approaching the square as well - Chromedome, Rewind -

“Please, just come back to the clinic. Maybe I missed something - your - your spark pains might have another cause, let me take a look and we can see what’s -”

Drift immediately clasps his arms together over his chest, over his spark. “No. You don’t - you’re not looking at my -” And there’s a twist in his engine when he says it, because he doesn’t want to say it, not to Ratchet, but -

But being Amica doesn’t matter here, so -

Something is very wrong.

“Just let us help you, Drift, please - “

“Drift -” Minimus starts, “Please, calm down, whatever I said, it -”

“Stop. Just - stop, I won’t -” He shakes his head. “Just let me go.”

“Drift, please be sensible, at least listen to Ratchet - ” Minimus starts.

“Drift -” Perceptor’s here too, Drift can’t tell from where, and Cyclonus and Tailgate are behind him, “Drift, please - this is just the loss of your memories. You’re going to be fine. This is Cyberutopia, the Knights are here, everything is going to be -”

“ _Stop_.” His spark is burning.

Wake up. He needs to wake up.

“Drift, please.” Perceptor says, “You’ve been happy here for so long, don’t run away -”

“Just let yourself be happy, Drift,” That voice - Thunderclash - and his voice is soon joined by a chorus of the others, the crew, frames not quite right and optics glazed.

He needs to wake up.

He presses himself against the wall, as though he could pry his way through it, free himself -

“Drift.”

Rodimus.

He looks up, and part of him can’t help but hope that Rodimus will, somehow, be right.

“Drift,” Rodimus says, his frame still _wrong_. “Come on. Follow me, everything is going to be fine. You’ll be fixed in no time,”

He wants to believe it. It doesn’t sound like Rodimus.

Rodimus seems to glow with light that should be holy. “Come, Drift, you know as well as I do that all of this is just part of the divine plan. Come back, and we can return to the Knights’ work as soon as you -”

“What is the Knights’ work?” Drift snaps. “ _What’s on the lower levels_?”

Minimus’s helm glitches. Twitches. Glitch wouldn’t even make sense, why -

“Drift,” Rodimus says, an indulgent smile plastered over a tense jaw. “You know better than to question the plan.”

Drift shakes his head, trying to move away, to push his way through the crowd.

“Come,” Rodimus snaps, reaching out and grabbing Drift’s wrist, hard -

 _Rodimus_ doesn’t do that.

Drift yanks his arm back and feels dents in his armor.

“Drift -” Rodimus’s wrong face twists in frustration.

The crowd presses closer around him, looming - he slips to his knees, trying to make himself smaller, to get away -

“Drift, please -”

“You need to listen -”

“Just let us -

“Calm -”

“ _You need to wake up._ ”

“- to Rodimus -”

“- follow the -”

“Everything is fine -”

“ _NO!”_ Drift shouts, flinging his arms out to try and shove the nearest bots away from him - holding his arms out to protect his spark.

And he feels - something, forming in his hands.

\---

Almost everyone has made it out of the tunnel, which has gotten narrow enough that Rodimus sent Roller to help the others outside the tunnel. Ultra Magnus is on one knee, the ceiling resting hard on his shoulders.

Ratchet’s still there, damn him, next to Thunderclash, waving others past him - he can see Swerve run by.

“Ratchet! Thunderclash!” Rodimus shouts back. “Get out of here!”

Ratchet isn’t looking at him. He’s looking further down the tunnel, at the slowly closing gap in the door beyond. Magnus couldn’t fit, or Thunderclash - it’s too small even for Ratchet now.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop! Get out of here! Magnus -” He starts, because Magnus may have to crawl out of here at this point -

“Someone has to find Drift!” Ratchet shouts at him.

“Ratchet -”

“Rodimus!” Ratchet yells. “You have to _go!_ ”

“I’m not leaving you!!” Rodimus yells back, and Ratchet lets out something somewhere between an exasperated groan and a yell.

“ _Magnus!_ ” Ratchet shouts. “Fastball!”

Rodimus’s feet leave the ground before he’s fully aware of what is happening. “I apologize for disobeying orders, Captain.” Magnus says, his hand wrapped around Rodimus’s torso, other arm still braced against the ceiling.

“Magnus, don --” But he doesn’t finish the sentence before he’s hurtling through the air like a javelin and through the remaining gap in the tunnel.

He flips into alt-mode in mid air and comes to a skidding halt along the tunnel floor. As soon as he turns around, he sees the door has almost fully closed.

“ _No!_ ” He races back toward the blocked entrance and flips back into root mode, but by then the door has shut completely. His fingers scrabble on the metal, trying to find a gap, a seam, he’ll pry it apart with his hands if he has to - “ _Magnus! Ratchet!_ ”

“Rodimus - !” He hears Magnus shout, and then Ratchet’s voice, closer.

“Get moving!” Ratchet yells. “Come on!”

“I’m not _leaving!_ ”

“We’ll be fine!” Ratchet yells. “Go on - _someone_ has to find Drift!”

“Why -” Rodimus half-sobs, digging the tips of his fingers into the seam of the metal, and only creating dents in his own fingers.

“It was either you or try to toss Swerve, kid.” Ratchet says. “You’ve got to find him, Rodimus, please.”

Rodimus leans forward and rests his head against the metal. “Tell Magnus he’s in charge. Tell him - tell him to get everyone to safety, and - and find Optimus.”

“Dammit, Rodimus, we’re finding another way in, I swear -”

Another dull scraping sound, and Rodimus reflexively jolts backwards as a plate from the ceiling comes down and hits his left shoulder, another one rising from the floor and hitting his right knee.

“Ratchet!” He shouts, now dashing back, as a series of rising and falling doors try to bisect him. “ _Ratchet!_ ”

But everything is closing in on him and for a moment as he leaps over the next door he is sure it is going to cleave right through him, he’s going to die in here, _stupid idiot failure why didn’t you listen to Optimus why did you do this to your crew you were never going to make it you let down Drift again how could you do that they’re all going to die because of you_

He keeps running.

\---

Drift looks down to see the hilt of his greatsword in his hands, and something, finally, clicks into rightness.

Then he realizes that it’s facing the wrong direction.

There, at the center of the pain in his spark, is his own blade in his chest.

He knows what he has to do.

For a brief, absurd moment he thinks _oh, Ratchet is going to be so angry at me -_

He pulls the sword out.

\---

Rodimus skids on to a different material but doesn’t realize it until he finally registers that the ceiling is no longer crashing down. It feels - almost warmer. Cleaner, and there’s a low hum running through the space.  

As soon as he realizes that there isn’t another door about to close on him Rodimus runs right back up at the last metal door that had slammed shut. “ _Ratchet! Magnus!_ ” He shouts. ‘ _Magnus!!’_ He calls over his radio, but there’s nothing but static. He jams his already-dented fingers into the seam of the door. _“Roller!_ Nautica! Nightbeat!” He throws his shoulder into the door, pushing until he feels the metal _has_ to dent. “Brainstorm! Anode! Come on!” Don’t think about the next door, or the dozen before that, or the tunnel that had been closing on Magnus - “Swerve! Whirl! Cyclonus - Tailgate!” He shutters his optics, feet scraping against the ground as he tries to push. “Thunderclash! _Anyone_ \- please!”

There’s no answer.

“No -” He starts, fingers still prying at the door, “no no no no -” The door doesn’t budge. “No!” He bangs his fist against the door; it echoes back, hollow. “ _Give them back!_ ”

He collapses against the door, fingers digging in, still straining to hear something, anything that would tell him that someone was alive on the other side _they can’t be dead they can’t be dead don’t let them be dead it’s my fault if they’re dead don’t let them be dead_

The pain starts to sink in.

Energon drips into his optics from a wound on the top of his helm, where he’d just barely missed one of the falling doors. Pain bleeds in from his damaged right spoiler, and crawls in from the dents in his shoulders and feet, and for a moment he just leans there, limp and shuddering.

_They’re not dead._

_This isn’t how it ends._

_They’re your crew. They’re better than this. Trust them._

_You’ll find them._

_Get up!_

He stands up, facing away from the closed door.

“I’m sorry.” He says, quietly, hoping that somehow, he’ll hear an answering voice from behind him.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he sees flames.

\---

Drift wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Drift's first and second scene, he's woken up in berth with someone who he identifies as Rodimus, but is actually an unidentified entity pretending to be Rodimus. not!Rodimus kisses Drift while they're in berth, and Drift is very much into what he thinks is happening, that is, kissing Rodimus, and reciprocates, but he's very disoriented and assumes he's dreaming through much of what is happening. The informed consent issue is specifically that he's not actually kissing who he thinks he's kissing. Nothing more significant happens than Not!Rodimus pushing Drift back when he leans up into the kiss, and some touching above the proverbial belt.
> 
> Not!Rodimus implies that they've been in a romantic relationship for several years - which is news to Drift - that Drift has forgotten due to memory lapses, and throughout the conversation he's casually kissing Drift. Throughout the scene Drift is increasingly disoriented and has a sense of unreality and that there’s something wrong about the situation, though not specifically directed at not!Rodimus's gestures. If any of that sounds like an issue, you can skip the first and the third scene overall.
> 
> ...
> 
> Overall in Drift's side of this chapter, he's in a false reality that he's increasingly seeing as unsettling and wrong, while false dopplegangers of his friends are trying to convince him everything is real and nothing is wrong. If that sounds like something that would not be good for your headspace, you can skip that side of the chapter by skipping every other scene starting with the first, just shoot me a comment so I can fill you in on plot-relevant details from that side.
> 
> ...  
> ...
> 
> If you can guess what movie Rodimus was thinking about as the tunnel started to collapse in your comment, I'll give you a sneak peek at the next chapter. :D
> 
> Chapter references! http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/176901992549/meet-in-the-middle-ch2-references


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: Drift woke up in an illusory world purporting to be an idyllic Cyberutopia five years in the future, featuring such highlights as: the Guiding Hand forcing everyone back into the forms with which they were originally forged+added weapons, the segregation of cold constructed Cybertronians, a constant unexplained sense of pain in his spark, 'friends' who occasionally glitch and tell Drift to wake up, and a Rodimus who would be totally in favor of spending the entire time making out with Drift, which is really the only selling point. Realizing that things are Not Right, Drift managed to wake up from the illusion by manifesting his Greatsword and pulling it out of his spark, as you do.
> 
> Meanwhile, the extended Rodsquad tracked Drift to a crevasse in Cyberutopia’s surface. A shrinking tunnel and a series of deadly doors managed to separate Rodimus from the rest of the crew. After reaching a point where the obstacles seemed to stop, Rodimus, unable to get back to the others, resolved to trust his crew and press on. That’s when the fire started.
> 
> Chapter songs: Radio Silence - Styx, Don’t Think Just Run - Beth Crowley, Fight Another Day - Addison Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a lot of fire in this chapter, and one passage that might be particularly unsettling describing a Cybertronian dying in fire. Details on where to skip if you want to skip that are in the end notes.

**_Then_ **

Drift wakes up.

It’s dark, but he doesn’t register it at first, his mind still back in the field, under the glaring light of the bomb blasts.

There’s someone standing over him - the sound of his voice still mixed in with the echoes of the battlefield - and Drift raises his arms defensively, instinctively, aiming at the intruder -

Aiming - 

He doesn’t have his guns  _ why doesn’t he have his guns,  _ he’s defenseless - 

His swords, he has his swords - because -

“Drift!” 

Finally, the voice over him rings out clear, the sounds of the battlefield fading away, clear blue optics looking down at him.

Drift, not Deadlock. 

“Drift.” Hot Rod says again, his hands up, guns not pointed at Drift. “Hey. Just a nightmare, Drift.”

He lowers his arms. 

“‘s yelling at you for a while there,” Hot Rod says, lowering his own hands back to his sides, grin too easy for someone who’s just been on the other end of - well. Not his guns. “Took you a while to wake up. Bad one, huh?”

“I - yeah,” He sits up properly, scooting himself into the far corner of his slab, pulling his arms closer to him. He taps the center of his chest - no spikes of the Decepticon badge, just the solid edge of the Autobot badge, still there. Hot Rod sits back down on his own slab, and some of the tension drops out of Drift’s frame at the added space. 

“You okay?”

“I - I’ll be fine.”

Hot Rod smiles, clearly unconvinced. He reaches in to his own subspace, and for a moment Drift braces himself, but he just pulls out a cube of energon. “Here. Sometimes helps settle my system when I can’t get back down.”

“I’ve - got some.” Drift says, reaching in to his own subspace.

Hot Rod doesn’t look offended, he just smiles. “‘Course you do. Feels like it took me forever to convince the folks around here to actually carry their own energon on the regular - lot of the old-timers are from Iacon or somesuch, you know how it is.”

Drift doesn’t know if he’s met more than a handful of people from Iacon before the past few months. “Yeah.”

“Here, you take it warm? I usually do, when it’s late.” And with that, Hot Rod shutters his optics and goes very still for a few moments, but not long enough for Drift to worry that he’s fallen back into recharge. 

And then his arm lights on fire, and Drift jumps about a foot in the air. 

“Pretty cool, huh?” 

And Drift bursts out laughing. 

“What?” Hot Rod looks a little offended, but Drift can’t stop laughing anyway.

“You - you lit your own arm - on fire?” Drift stutters out. “You - holy shit, that’s - that’s -”

“Not what you were expecting?” Hot Rod says, grin restored.

Drift tries to gulp down air, “No - nope -” 

Hot Rod laughs. He holds his hand a little ways below his own cube of energon for a few moments, just until a little steam starts to come off the top, then gestures towards Drift’s cube. Drift holds it out, fascinated by the way the flame is dancing over the metal of Hot Rod’s plating without seeming to so much as blister the paint. 

“It’s not just the arm, I can light up everything else, if I want. It’s got a great blast radius, it just burns through a lot of fuel.” Hot Rod says, “Anyway, it’s cool.” 

“Seems pretty hot to me.” Drift says, deadpan.

Hot Rod stares at him for a moment, then cracks up. “Oh - Primus, that was - that was really bad.” 

Drift grins, and sips the warm energon. Hot Rod was right, it is - comforting. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally, and tries to paste a sardonic smile over his next words. “Bad enough you got stuck rooming with the Decepticon, you got one with fucking - ‘nightmares’.”

“Oh,  _ that,  _ don’t worry about that. You’ll be dealing with mine soon enough. Springer says I thrash around enough that the clanging could wake the dead. It’s just nightmares. ‘Sides,” He adds, “I was getting shuffled around anyway, I asked Kup if they’d assigned anyone else to your room yet.”

“You - what?”

“You’re from Rodion, right?” Hot Rod says, with a kind of casual familiarity, no trace of the scorn he usually hears with the name of his city.

“Yeah.” Drift looks at him. “Are you?”

“Nah. Place kinda like it, though. Street brat.” He says, nodding to indicate he’s talking about himself.

“Where?”

“Eh, no place most people have heard of.” Hot Rod says, sitting back.

“Yeah, that does sound like Rodion.” After a moment, Drift holds up the remainder of his energon cube. “To places most people never hear of, then.”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod says, and he clinks his cube against Drift’s.

Of the ways he’s been woken up from a nightmare, this has to be one of the better ones.

Still -

“You’re singeing your recharge slab,” He says.

“Oh  _ shit, _ ” Hot Rod says, lifting up his still sizzling arm and waving it around until he finally forces the last of the flames down. The recharge slab really is only a little singed, not even any sign of melting. “Don’t tell Kup? I’m really not supposed to, you know, light up inside.”

Drift laughs, and leans back against the wall, feeling some last tension drop out of his shoulders. “I won’t.”

Yeah, definitely one of the better ways. Maybe one of the best.

\---

**_Now_ **

Drift wakes up. 

For a moment, he is terrified of the seeming void, of the feeling of  _ something _ sliding away from his head, away from his processor - but his sensors come online, registering that there is a floor, objects and walls around him, and as his optics adjust he realizes it is only a shadow, a dark place, a light seeming to fade out of it, and the burning in his spark.

A  _ real  _ place.

_ That _ wasn’t real, he tells himself, and he could almost cry for the relief. 

They were all still out there, still real, still the people he knew. The people he loved. 

Not - what he had seen in there. 

Just nightmares. They were just nightmares.

He can’t cry.

\---

Rodimus sees flames.

Nyon is burning. 

He knows this street. 

He knows it down to the cracks under his feet, the pothole that his right tire is slipping on the edge of. The broken down wall on the unburnt building in front of him, and the layers and layers of graffiti, where he and Slinger had hidden away from the heat of the three suns on the worst of the summer days, leaning back against the wall and laughing at nothing.

He can almost remember how that wall felt against his spoiler, and - almost without thinking, he walks towards it, reaches out a hand to feel -

He recoils from the heat of the flames as another charge goes off - delayed, faulty wiring, must have been, it wasn’t as though they had better - and fire jumps to the building, the wall warping at the edges under the heat. 

The fire is all around him. 

Nyon is dying.

He is going to die here.

“Rodimus!” 

He turns around so fast his tires leave skid marks on the road.

Slinger -

No - Slinger was a Decepticon, the last time -

Slinger is dead. 

\---

Drift can’t cry. 

None of the mechanisms in his optics will move. 

His mouth won’t move. 

He struggles to move his legs and arms, to push himself upright from - wherever, however he’s lying prone - but there is nothing to struggle against, his limbs are simply there, frozen, he can’t move, he can’t stand, he can’t run, he -

He is helpless -

\- and the only motion he can feel is the frantic racing of his spark, flaring so hot it feels as though it could burn through his chest casing, the burning pain still there, terrified and helpless and exposed - 

He knows this feeling. 

He never wanted to go through this again. 

He’d clawed through too much pain to  _ keep  _ himself from going through this again, from being a helpless body in the street for anyone to use as a toy to torture -

There’s nothing to dull the pain now, nothing to -

He just wants the pain to stop. 

He wants - 

He wants it to have been real, and he hates himself for thinking it even for a second but he wants Rodimus to stroke his finial and smile at him, he wants to lean on Ratchet and hear that he’s going to be okay - 

Right now, he’d accept any excuse for the unreality if he could move again, if they could make the pain stop.

When his brain had been fried past the point of processing but not past the point of pain, in one of the worst experiences he’d had back in his oldest frame, the one the illusion had forced him into, he’d -

He’d had Ratchet.

Ratchet had fixed him. 

Ratchet isn’t here; and even as he tries to reach him he gets nothing but static over the radio.

He doesn’t know how to fix himself.

And now -

Now, he wants to live. 

He doesn’t - he can’t - go without seeing them, all of them, the real Magnus, and Percy, and Rodimus, and Ratchet, again. He  _ has  _ to live so he can see them again, he can’t -

He just -

He just wants Ratchet to be here. 

\---

Slinger is dead.

Slinger is standing in front of him; his paint bubbling and flaking in the heat, his metal warping at the edges. 

_ This isn’t real. _

“Hot Rod,”

“Rodimus,” He corrects reflexively, because he knows  _ that _ is real.

“Hot Rod,” Slinger repeats. 

“You’re dead,” Rodimus says.

“You killed me.” The metal around Slinger’s optics warps and starts to slide down his face. 

“Not - not here,” Rodimus says, “You survived Nyon, you -”

“ _ I died to save you! You  _ killed me!” Slinger shouts. “You think I would have been  _ there  _ if it hadn’t been for you? You think I would have died if you hadn’t killed my home? You think I would have become this if you had been there?” He reaches up to his chest, where a Decepticon badge is melting away, reaches back out and smears the purple across Rodimus’s chest. 

The city is burning around him. 

“I -”

He looks at the city.

He remembers a time, in the early years of the war, when he couldn’t even look at his own flames without wanting to run for a dark corner and purge his tanks. When he tore himself awake from nightmares of his home more nights than not. The way the wall crumbles, the way the metal in Slinger’s face warps - they’re too-real echoes of images he’s seen in his mind thousands of times. 

He destroyed his city. 

“This isn’t real.” He tells Slinger.

“Isn’t it?” Says a voice from behind him, and that’s - 

That’s Shutter, he’d know the big truck anywhere, even without the camera she carried -

\- even with the way the melting metal twists her mouth into a ghoulish scream, even with the crushed leg that she drags behind her.

“Because you did kill me, Rodimus.” She says. “You know  _ that  _ is true. You know that it hurt.” She takes his hands, her hands completely engulfing his, and as their metal melts it scalds him, eating at his own plating. “The building I was in collapsed from the bombs next door, and my legs were crushed.” She gestures to the crumpled plating of one leg, and then the other collapses and she falls to her knees, dragging Rodimus down, down to his knees, and it is more than he deserves. “Eventually, my engine failed in the smoke and my processor shut down, but not -” She coughs, racking, it shakes Rodimus’s frame, “- not before half my frame melted away. Not before it cut through to my spark chamber. Do you know what it feels like, to have your spark exposed, only to ash and flame?”

Only in his nightmares, in all the ways he’d imagined to die in fire. Only in four million years worth of guilt and grief.  

“I’m sorry -” He says, shaking, as molten metal pours over his arms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry -”

\---

As his optics continue to adjust to the darkness, he begins to pick out more of what’s around him, beyond the reach of his sensors. The room above him extends far, far above, and -

He doesn’t know how he hasn’t  _ felt  _ it, but there it is. His sword hilt.

Facing the wrong direction. 

His nightmare had been right about one thing; his blade was through his spark.

And that’s why he hadn’t noticed it, because he’d been feeling it all this time, as his spark had been burning - 

\- and  _ why was his sword through his spark _ ? 

His spark races and flares - flares around his sword, and he -

Dark places, and his sword in his spark.

Vector Sigma.

“ _ I won’t! _ ”

The force that had crept over him, through him, trying to subsume him -

_ helpless _

_ (“Drift? Are you okay?”) _

He’d - he’d fought too hard to stop this, not to be helpless. To -

To not be the person who wanted to turn his weapons on the Autobots standing beside him, to destroy them, to tear them apart as the compulsion bid him, to kill - 

Rodimus. 

And he’d put his sword through his spark rather than be the one who tore them apart, and Rodimus screaming “ _ NO! _ ” Is the last thing he heard. 

He doesn’t remember anything afterwards, not until he woke up, his sword gone, in the hospital. He doesn’t remember anything, except for the vision he saw, and the faintest impression of warm hands, holding him up.

“ _ You okay _ ?”

He’s not okay. But he wishes Rodimus was there to ask.

He wants Rodimus to ask, and he wants - warm hands, and warm energon.

He wants to wake up from the nightmare.

\---

“Rodimus,”

It’s Warthog, towering over him, rusted and worn and sturdy as always, their left wing half-broken off, as it has been for as long as Rodimus could remember - since before Rodimus been sparked, to hear Warthog tell it. 

He remembers, when he was younger, young even relative to how young he had been when he left his home, how Warthog had been able to transform themself and fly, on a wing and a half, tracing the skies over Nyon. But years of heat and rust have left Warthog on the ground.

Slinger said that was what Nyon did to people. 

But it wasn’t Nyon. It was the Senate, who had wanted their aerial forces occupied by flashier, newer flightframes than Warthog, and declared Warthog not worth fixing when they had been injured. It was the Senate who had choked off all funding for reconstruction or support or even  _ doctors  _ to Nyon. It was the Functionists who had choked off every route to a job for Warthog that wasn’t flight specific - and who didn’t want to help Warthog anyway, unless they acquiesced meekly to the words the Functionists chose for them. The same for Shutter - who’d scrounged and saved for her camera, who guarded it, who kept and copied and sent every picture, who drove every supply run on unrepaired roads that tore up her tires, who the Functionists  _ hated,  _ ever since she changed her name, ever since she started going by  _ she _ , whose photographs of Nyon were pushed aside once anyone found out a  _ cargo truck _ took them. And Slinger - 

It wasn’t Nyon. It was Zeta. 

But there is no Zeta on the horizon, screaming about how this would serve the Autobot cause, no Vamparc ribbons.

This is just the aftermath of what he did to his city. 

“Rodimus,” Warthog says, reaching out to put a hand on Rodimus’s shoulder, a hand that is warm and worn, that doesn’t burn or scald or melt onto his plating. A hand that is gentle as it turns Rodimus to face a new direction. 

And Nyon is unburnt. 

More than unburnt, Nyon is -

Beautiful.

The old-timers, the few of them there were, the ones who were even older than Warthog, much older - they talked in hazy, half remembered terms about a Nyon of the Golden Age, a Nyon that shone and did not rust. 

This is what he had imagined.

And yet, not like this - because there are modern trappings too, things that  _ he  _ remembers from his most recent visits to Cybertron - the most recent, rebuilt designs, the ones that still gleamed.

“It doesn’t have to happen like that,” Warthog says, with a wave behind them to the flames, flames that Rodimus can still feel as heat at his back. “You can fix it.” 

“Why carry that with you,” Shutter says from behind him, and she is whole again as she steps past him, towards the shining city, “when you could have this?”

“You are better,” Slinger says, “You could make this.”

This - 

This is what he wants. 

The city, himself - clean. In the distance, he can hear voices cheer.

A voice he recognizes - Aftermarket, Rodimus could never forget his voice, not after all the times he’d installed Rodimus’s racing mods, but otherwise he’s nearly unrecognizable, with his own mods cleaned away, headlights now intact, and clean red and white paint.

“Come on, kid,” he says, a hand outstretched, “what are you standing there for?”

It feels like he’s been running for four million years for this; every time he’s raced for something that could be momentous enough to wipe the destruction of his city away, that could make the pain stop - he was reaching for  _ this _ .

He takes a step forward, and Warthog takes a step to follow him, and he can see their wing, now restored. 

He doesn’t have to carry the fire with him.

\---

Drift doesn’t wake up. The room stays, as real and steady as ever.

This isn’t a nightmare.

He shifts the focus of his optics away from his sword, looks up, looks for a way out. 

There is no way out, he cannot even see a ceiling, if there is one, it is high enough to be completely in shadow, there are only layers upon layers of -

_ stone soldiers  _

\- no, they’re not stone, as far as he can tell - their shapes in the low light look more like they are made of metal, look almost Cybertronian, each one standing in a niche in the wall, far above, layers and layers, as far as Drift can see, there must be hundreds, at the very least. 

_ “To make yourself an army?” _

_ “One that I will be able to control absolutely.” _

_ “For what?!” _

_ “To kill.” _

_ “Kill what?” _

_ “Everything.” _

This isn’t that temple. This isn’t his exile. These aren’t those soldiers. 

Like those soldiers, they stand lifeless, stock still. But it’s not the same.

Because then, he wasn’t alone. 

“ _ You  _ can’t  _ do this alone.” _

_ “Okay...together.” _

He  _ can’t  _ do this alone. 

He can’t bear it. He doesn’t want -

He’d let Ratchet help him. He wants Ratchet to help him - he -

As far as he can stretch his field, he can’t feel Ratchet - he can’t feel  _ anyone. _

He’s paralyzed, with his sword through his spark, in a room with a lifeless army, and Ratchet  _ isn’t there.  _

Rodimus, Perceptor, Ultra Magnus -

Drift is alone. 

\---

**_Then_ **

Rodimus is not drunk. 

He’s not sober, either. He’s exactly as not-sober as he needs to be to say what he needs to say, and no more. Because what would be even worse than saying it is not remembering he said it, and not knowing - well, not knowing who knew. Besides, he knows his limits better than most people think. 

“I’m from Nyon,” Rodimus says, and for the first time in nearly four million years, he lets the rough edges of his Nyon accent back into his voice. “That’s my home.” 

Drift looks at him, startled as the non-sequitur. Rodimus just stares up at the ceiling, from where he’s sprawled on his own recharge slab. 

“When I said - that I was from someplace like Rodion. That’s what I meant. Nyon.” 

“I thought Nyon was destroyed,” Drift says. “Before the war really started. They said the A-” And then he stops.

Rodimus laughs, hollow. It echoes uncomfortably off the ceiling. It’s late enough that only the most minimal shift is on duty; there are no other sounds around their room.

“Yeah. It was,” he says. “I destroyed it.”

He’d thought he’d feel better when he said it, but now it just hangs in the room between them, ready to suck both of them in and tear them apart. 

“How?” Drift asks. 

“Bombs, mostly,” Rodimus says, still staring at the ceiling. “We - we’d gotten pretty good at making them from - whatever. Nothing like we’ve got here, you know. Just - street brat kind of -” He mimes an explosion with his hands. “Who knew.”

“Is - what they say about Zeta,” Drift starts, and Rodimus laughs without humor, “is it true?”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says. “They wanted - who even knows what they wanted, anymore, but they picked the place on Cybertron that nobody cared enough about to protect, and - and Zeta tried to bleed us dry. He had a machine, and it drained - it drained us, slow. Them,” he adds, “Not me. I got out. We tried to get everyone out, but - we weren’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough. So -” His hands tremble as he gestures. “I didn’t want them to die that way.” He adds, more quietly. “Not - slow. I couldn’t -”

Drift doesn’t say anything. 

“It was me. I pulled the trigger,” Rodimus says, finally, and lets out a long exhale. “I don’t - I haven’t told anyone. The people who were there know, but - yeah.” 

Drift doesn’t say anything, and Rodimus would like very much to crawl into a hole and die, because if he’s just fucked this up, if he was wrong, if he should have just kept his dumb mouth shut - 

“I think,” Drift says, “if it were me - if it had been Rodion - I would have wanted to die quick.” A faint shudder runs through his frame. “Take bombs over dragging - dragging the life out of me, any day. That’s just - wrong.”

Rodimus can’t say anything, because his fuel pump is in his throat and his optics are wet, because Drift  _ understands _ , and it feels like some part of the fire that he’s been carrying for more than four million years, the fire even the Matrix hadn’t put out, has been quenched. He nods silently instead, and maybe that’s better, better for Drift to see it written on his face, in his optics, because he doesn’t know how to say how much this means without it sounding - fake.

“You ever use the Relinquishment Clinics?” Drift asks, and, well, he can’t exactly throw stones about non sequiturs. 

“No,” Rodimus says, “no, Nyon - Nyon had the tracks. That’s where I - yeah.”

Drift nods. “I did. I - one time, when they were putting me back in my body, they - screwed up. With the system purge. They didn’t always do them, but -” He’s not looking at Rodimus, “I could feel - like I was being pulled down. It was just - barely a minute, but - I never wanted to feel that again,” he says. “I thought I was going to die there.”

Rodimus nods, unable to speak.

“It could have been Rodion, you know.” Drift says, with the edge to his smile that he so rarely lets out. “Another place no one cared about.”

Rodimus, finally, looks at Drift. “I’m glad it wasn’t.” 

“Maybe I -“ Drift starts, darkly, but doesn’t finish.

“Hey,” Rodimus starts, trying for joking and failing to reach that high, “our body counts are probably about the same, all things -”

Drift flinches. 

“ - yeah,” Rodimus says. He’s not saying this well.

Eventually the silence grows to a point where Rodimus can feel it pressing down on his chest. 

“He complimented me for it, you know. Megatron,” Rodimus says, staring at the ceiling, hand pressed tightly over his chest. “Said something about leadership. Another minute, and -”

Drift’s been looking at him intently since he said Megatron’s name. “And?”

“And I would have said yes.” He reaches up to his chest, mimes drawing the pointy edges of the Decepticon badge over his Autobot one. “I would have - yeah,”

Drift just stares at him. Rodimus stares at the ceiling. 

“Zeta - he was screaming about - how he was - something about the Autobots, how this was all for the Autobot cause. And -” He lets out a hollow laugh. “And what the hell had the Senate ever done for me, you know? For Nyon? Except hold us down, let us die and let the Functionists run roughshod over us,”

“Yeah,” Drift says, and when Rodimus turns his head to look at him, Drift looks almost surprised that he’d said it. 

They let the silence grow.

“Took me - I don’t know, almost a year, before I could hear ‘Autobot’ and not hear Zeta’s voice,” he admits, finally. “Thought I was going to be sick during my affiliation ceremony. That would have been something, just purging all over Optimus Prime,”

“You -” Drift starts, and then cuts himself off.

“What?” Rodimus asks, looking over at him.

“What stopped you?” Drift finally forces out. “From -?”

“Oh, I -” He reaches up and scratches at the back of his chevron. “Luck. Starscream pulled ‘Bee by at the wrong time, and,” he half shrugs, as much as he can from where he’s lying down on his slab, “I just - couldn’t do it. Was just luck.”

Drift looks at him. 

“What - what I’m trying to say, very badly, is - is that I get it. Sorta. I know some of the oth- but it’s not important. I just - wanted you to know that.” 

There is something soft and melancholy in Drift’s eyes as he looks at Rodimus, and Rodimus can’t look away. “Another minute,” he says.

“Yeah,” Rodimus says. “We could have been the same, you know?”

“Nah,” Drift says, with that same edged smile. “You wouldn’t have been like me.”

“What?” Rodimus rolls over so he can look at Drift better. “Why?”

“You talk too much,” Drift says, with half a grin. “You would have driven Megatron up the wall. He would have - I don’t know, sent you to the most out of the way post he could, five minutes in.” 

“Really?” Rodimus says, laughing, his hand over his chest, and Drift laughs.

“I’m glad ‘Bee was there,” Drift says, quietly, after a moment.

“I -” Rodimus starts, “I’m glad we’re both here.”

Drift nods, and when the silence grows it’s a lighter thing, not something that presses him down, but something that’s growing between them, together.

“Why me?” Drift says, finally, reaching out across the silence. “I mean - why tell  _ me _ ?”

Rodimus doesn’t respond right away, and Drift doesn’t say anything else. “You’re from Rodion,” Rodimus says, finally, “I thought - you might understand. If anyone could.” 

Drift’s optics are a soft light in the room as he looks at Rodimus, and they don’t need to say anything else. 

\---

**_Now_ **

Rodimus looks at his city.

His city is alive. The streets are filled with people behind Aftermarket, familiar shapes of cars and trucks rolling past, Toren and Kalr, fellow racers, their paint jobs sleek and free of scars. Nathas, who had always been at the racetrack when Rodimus had raced, even though he never placed a bet, and - 

These are the people of his city. These are his people, the people who lived in Nyon, who cared about Nyon, even when no one outside of it did. 

_ “It could have been Rodion, you know. Another place no one cared about.” _

Drift. 

_ This isn’t real.  _

These people are dead. Drift - Drift is  _ still alive _ .

He’s facing the wrong way. 

Rodimus turns around. 

\---

He is paralyzed. 

He knows what he has to do. He’s done it before.

It was terrifying when he was alone in the streets, left completely unprotected if he failed. 

It is more terrifying now, alone, surrounded by an army, with his sword through his spark, unable to know whether this will really  _ work,  _ or throw him back into the nightmare, or simply leave him unconscious, unable to wake up.

Hard reset.

He doesn’t know what else to do; he doesn’t want to do this. 

He stares at the hilt of the sword in his spark. 

Wing’s hands had held that hilt - held it as he died. 

Wing - 

Wing hadn’t seen a monster when he looked at Deadlock. He’d seen - something, something Drift had been too far down a hole to even glimpse. 

That, more than any of the specifics the Circle of Light had taught him, had been where he learned what it meant to have faith, even if he hadn’t understood it at the time.

As much as the comparison would only aggravate him, it reminds Drift of Ratchet, a little. Reaching down and dragging him out of the hole, even as he tried to dig himself deeper. Even as he tried to run away, run away and hope that would be enough - 

Rodimus - 

Rodimus had seen something of himself, he thinks, and if he could, he’d smile. He’d jumped right down in the hole, reckless, thoughtless, and walked with him, one light burning in the darkness.  

None of them would let him give up. 

_ He  _ won’t let himself give up. He’s come too far, survived too much.

And if this is the only way, it is the only way.

He won’t let it end here.

He readies his system for reset. 

\---

“Rodimus,” Shutter says, “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Rodimus says, staring back into the flames. “I can’t - I can’t leave this.”

“You would give up all of this,” Warthog begins, gesturing to the shining city, now behind them. 

“You would put us through  _ that, _ ” Slinger snaps, speaking towards the flames. “Again?”

“You would kill us?” Shutter asks. 

Rodimus looks out into the flames, and remembers standing, not amongst the buildings, but above the city, a detonator in his hand. 

There’s more than four million years between him and the person he was then. And yet, he can still remember this moment perfectly, has relived it, over and over, seen it in dreams, played it out over and over again to find another way, to find a way where he could save the day, to find a way where no one would die on his watch. 

Nothing, not the Matrix, not the end of the war, not saving half the Cybertronian race - nothing had made him forget. And, as they could not, not even the golden city behind him would take that moment away.

He looks at Shutter, looks at Warthog, looks at Slinger; and, for the first time, he feels like he can see that moment clearly. 

He hadn’t understood what Optimus and Megatron had meant, when they’d talked about that moment, and leadership - not when they’d said it. Not until later. Later, when the war had gone on long enough to drag, when they’d abandoned Cybertron, Rodimus had realized that Optimus, at the least, had - had probably thought it had been  _ strategic.  _ That he had sacrificed Nyon to keep Zeta from building up his war machine. 

The war machine driven by his people’s blood. 

That wasn’t the reason.

_ “I think, if it were me - if it had been Rodion - I would have wanted to die quick. Take bombs over dragging - dragging the life out of me, any day. That’s just - wrong.” _

That was the reason.

He could not have stopped the Senate from leaving Nyon to ruin, couldn’t have stopped Zeta from taking them for blood as fuel. Not alone, and not with Shutter’s photographs or Warthog’s military service or Slinger’s anger. The person that had stood on that overlook could not have stopped it from coming to this moment, as much as four million years of hindsight makes him wish he could.

Kill his people, or leave them to a slower, more tortured death.

He could not let that happen to his people - these people - Shutter, Warthog, Aftermarket, Toren -

He wasn’t Megatron. He wasn’t Optimus.

He is not Optimus Prime.

“You’re not real,” Rodimus says, turning to Shutter, “You - the real you - you cared too much about the truth to ask me to walk into a lie. You wanted to show everyone Nyon as it was, so we could change it.” 

He turns to Warthog. “You were too brave to have ever wanted to die slowly.  And,” He adds, “you - you were kinder than this.”

He turns to Slinger. “You never did anything except on your own terms. You wouldn’t ask me to make this choice for you.

“You aren’t real, but - I am sorry. I didn’t want it to end this way.  But I can’t undo this. The real people, the ones who died - I made this choice for them. But I am sorry.

“I’m sorry” he tells Shutter, “that we couldn’t help Nyon your way. I’m sorry no one saw until it was too late.”

“I’m sorry you had to die on the ground.” He says to Warthog, “I’m sorry it hurt.

“And I’m sorry,” he says, at last, to Slinger, “that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry we fell apart.”

“You’re really going to walk away?” Shutter asks.

He can’t look at the three of them; but he makes himself look at them anyway. “I’m sorry. I know you’re not real, but -” He takes a deep breath, “But I waited too long to say this, and - and then, I didn’t. I love you. You were my family. You always will be.” 

“You will  _ always  _ burn.” Slinger says.

Rodimus stares at the fire. “I know.”

\---

Drift wakes up. 

The mechanisms in his optics switch into action, his fingers twitch -

He is free. 

He can feel his optics start to heat with tears. 

He brings his hands up to his chest, to his spark, to his sword.

“He’s  _ awake _ -!” A voice shouts, and it sounds - wrong.

He closes his hands around the hilt of his sword; the only thing left pinning him down. 

He  _ will  _ survive this. 

He pulls the sword from his spark -

\- and rises to face the battle. 

\---

Rodimus steps forward into burning Nyon.

“You will carry this with you forever,” Shutter says. “Our deaths will always drag down your spark.”

“I know.”

“The blood of this city is on your hands,” Slinger spits at him, “ _ Our _ blood, Hot Rod.”

“I know,” he says. “And it’s Rodimus.”

“You would walk away from the Nyon you dreamed of?” Warthog asks. “You would walk away from a chance to make things right?”

Rodimus stops, looks at Warthog. “This isn’t making things right. I  _ can’t  _ make things right, I can’t undo this. I - even if I could, it - it wouldn’t end well. And that, that doesn’t mean I -" He shakes his head. "I can’t change the fact that I did this.” Rodimus says. “I can’t run forever. You were right,” He turns to Shutter. “I will carry this with me - until I die. After that, too. The only thing I can do is carry it, and - and try to do what’s right for - for the living.”

“You can never forget this. It will -”

“I won’t.” Rodimus says. “That’s a promise.”

He looks at the three of them for a moment. They’re not real, but - they are exactly as he remembers. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I have to find Drift.”

He walks into the flames.

Rodimus of Nyon walks out of his city, and the flames do not touch him.

\---

Drift slices into the first of his attackers - an organic, but not completely organic, with sharp, spiked limbs and large angry eyes - his sword catches on and cuts through the armor the guard wears - 

\-  but he’s barely had time to knock that one to the floor before a second one is on him, and he reaches for another sword but the swords are no longer at his hips, and instead he punches the onrushing attacker - broader, taller - 

\- and it goes down, metal-plated tail flailing - goes down too easy, Drift points his sword, waiting for it to rise -

\- but then another of the spiky-armed ones is leaping at him and he doesn’t have time, he raises his sword and  _ just _ blocks the spikes from scoring his plating, he hits the attacker to the ground -

\- and on the backswing he -

\- his blade doesn’t connect, the flat of his sword glances off the tall one but it falls anyway -

\- and there’s one of the others between him and the door - there’s a door, there’s a way out, there’s a way -

\- he strikes the last guard down and makes for the door, the door is open -

\- the hall is clear, and somewhere on the other side -

Somewhere on the other side, there must be the way back to the Lost Light, to Ratchet, to Rodimus - 

\- to home.

\---

Rodimus runs -

\- runs through the the long hall, the metal smooth under his feet, growing colder, and - 

He stops at the sound of screams. Screams he could have gone his whole life without hearing again. 

He turns and runs, runs to a door that falls when he kicks it open, and in the dark room beyond -

_ Drift! _

\---

Drift runs -

And, at the other end of the hallway, he sees red and gold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip from “That’s Shutter, he’d know the big truck anywhere, even without the camera she carried -” to the --- that marks the next scene if you want to skip the ‘death by fire’ passage.
> 
> \---
> 
> veto-power-over-clocks did a reading of the opening flashback in this chapter and it's wonderful, go listen! http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/177784710254/so-the-wonderful-veto-power-over-clocks-did
> 
> and choomchoom illustrated the opening flashback! I love it so much, go take a look! https://choomchoom.tumblr.com/post/177890205367/based-on-a-scene-from-chapter-3-of
> 
> \---
> 
> References and notes here: http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/176939566199/meet-in-the-middle-ch3-references  
> For more music, a whole playlist for the Fall of Nyon is here, thanks to Kepler: https://open.spotify.com/user/vallesmarineris/playlist/4ml9kXdUZnSSnnHiD2Cr19?si=OKmZdeIfS7qi9SbdWOE6ew  
> Shutter and Aftermarket are Kepler’s Nyon OCs, borrowed with permission (thanks Kep!) Toren, Kalr, and Nathas are named after ships from the Imperial Radch trilogy, which has the distinction of being one of the few series I am as ride-or-die for as I am MTMTE, and one you should absolutely read. Warthog is my OC, and if you can guess what the Earth equivalent of their altmode is, I’ll give you a preview of the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: Drift wakes up in a dark chamber with his greatsword through his spark, which, obviously less than ideal. He goes on to further realize that a) he’s paralyzed and b) the walls of the chamber he’s in are stacked with immobile, seemingly nonfunctioning, not-quite-cybertronian soldiers. Restoring his mobility via a hard reset, Drift frees himself and fights off his guards, who are organic, and not of species Drift recognizes. Once out of the chamber, Drift makes a run for it, and then sees red and gold at the end of the tunnel…
> 
> Meanwhile, Rodimus’s day isn’t going much better, as he’s confronted with an illusion of Nyon, on fire, and the figures of several of his friends from Nyon. Rodimus rejects the new illusion of a perfect, undamaged Nyon that they offer him, and moves onwards to try and find Drift. Free of Nyon, he hears what sounds like Drift’s screams, and runs off in pursuit…
> 
> Chapter Songs: Smile - Mikky Ekko, Hologram - Katie Herzig, I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For - U2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! General warning that the last four tags very much apply, and a brief emetophobia warning.

 

_ Drift! _

The door Rodimus has broken open lets light into a dark room, light enough to see the way Drift is slumped against the restraints holding him to a vertical slab, his face in shadow; no light from his optics, but light gleams off of dripping energon running down the grooves in the slab.

“Drift -!”

The name hardly leaves his mouth before he’s set upon by Drift’s tormenters. 

It’s not difficult to bring his flame to the surface, throwing back the closer attacker. He swings his right arm around and fires at the second attacker, and then, as the first attacker begins to struggle back upright, draws up his left arm and shoots the first attacker.

He hardly even notices the sound when the attacker falls to the floor, he’s already running to Drift.

“ _ Drift, _ ”

Drift lets out a low, pained moan that makes Rodimus’s insides twist themselves into knots, and Drift’s optics start to flicker online. “Rodimus…” he starts, “you’re here,” and Rodimus’s engine block leaps at the words.

“Hey, hey hey hey, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’ve got you.” Rodimus scans the room to see if any others are about to leap out at them; the room seems to be clear. “I’m going - I’m going to find a way to get these off you, hang on, are you - where did they hurt you, can you stand?”

“Left…”

“What?” Rodimus asks, wondering if he misheard.

“The release... to the left.”

“Left - oh!” He finds the release mechanism where Drift has indicated. “I’m going to let you down now, okay? I can help you if you can’t stand. Okay?”

Drift weakly lifts and lowers his chin in a nod, looking up at Rodimus with utter relief. 

Rodimus releases the clamps, and Drift lands on his feet for a moment, before staggering and falling forward, into Rodimus’s arms. He feels Drift’s energon slide down his side, and his engine drops at the feeling - but Drift is  _ here,  _ Rodimus found him, he has him back, and they - they can fix that. 

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” He says, trying to hold Drift up carefully without gripping him too tightly, because the last thing he needs is for Drift to panic while he’s injured. “Is this okay?”

“Don’t... think I can walk,” Drift looks up at him, afraid and desperate, “Rodimus, they - I -” he lets his head fall forward on Rodimus’s shoulder, and Rodimus can feel him shaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll get out of here,” Rodimus says, as though he knows another way out than the closed route he came in.

“Rodimus - please -” Drift tilts his head toward his legs, barely holding up any of his weight. 

“Oh - oh, yeah - that would - yeah.” Drift weighs about what Rodimus does, but that doesn’t matter now, he’ll carry Drift as far as he has to. He leans down and scoops up Drift’s legs so he can carry him, and Drift presses his face into the crook of Rodimus’s neck. 

“Thank you,” Drift says, into Rodimus’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming back - for - for saving me. I - I thought - I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

Rodimus can feel the full weight of Drift in his arms, Drift is  _ really here _ . He could cry for relief.

“I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Rodimus says, “I’m right here.”

\---

“Rodimus -!”

The red and gold figure turns and begins to sprint down the hallway towards him. “Drift!”

It’s Rodimus, it’s his voice, and he - 

\- realizes that pulling out his sword has left an open hole over his spark, where the light’s bleeding through. He hastily covers it, bracing his forearm across his chest. 

If Rodimus noticed the wound, or if he notices the awkward way that Drift is covering it, he doesn’t comment on it. 

“Drift,” Rodimus starts, “Are you alright? I didn’t expect you to be out -”

“Where - how did you -”

“Drift,” He says, smiling, “it’s okay. I came back to get you.”

“You -”

“It’s okay.” He holds an arm out, and Drift leans into it, relieved. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Some of the tension drops out of his arms, even though his hands are still clutching the hilt of his Greatsword.

“I found the Knights, Drift.” Rodimus says, with a smile, and Drift’s head snaps up to look at him. “It’s okay. You did it.”

_ He found the Knights. _

Something inside of his chest seems to fall away, a clean connection clicking into place at last. What he had seen in Vector Sigma, years ago -

_ “You did it. _ ”

“You know I couldn’t have done it without you,” Rodimus says, and - it is everything he could have wanted to hear. “You got me here.”

Drift ducks his head to hide the way his optics well up, and Rodimus - gently, so gently - tucks his arm around him a little tighter. 

“You’re safe, Drift.” Rodimus says, and Drift lets his arm drop away from the hole over his spark. 

\---

Rodimus carries Drift out of the dark room, back into the corridor. He looks both ways down the hallway before turning back the way he had come - if there was any hope of a way out to be had, it would have to be that way. 

Drift groans in pain at the motion, Rodimus can feel where Drift’s energon is flowing down his side. 

“What happened? Drift - where - is there anything I can -?”

He feels Drift shake his head against his neck. “They - they -” 

“I’ve got you,”

“I - I don’t remember anything until I woke up on - on that thing.” Drift says, shuddering. “They - they were trying to do  _ something _ , but they - they never said what it was, I just - it just  _ hurt _ .”

Rodimus looks around for - some place, some corner, some cranny they can hide in. “I have medical grade - Ratchet gave it to me, I can -”

“No -” Drift says, with unexpected sharpness, “No - you have to get out of here -”

“Okay - okay,” Rodimus starts, “the crew is outside, it’s okay,” he says, hoping that’s true, “we’ll find them, Ratchet can help, Ratchet can fix -”

“Rodimus,” Drift says insistently, “you have to find the Knights, they need to know what’s down here.” 

“We will - Optimus is still looking for them now, we’ll find him -”

“ _ You  _ will find them,”

_ “Someone else  _ doesn’t  _ take over!” _

Drift’s voice, now, echoes the memory.

“ _ Rodimus _ \-  **you** have to, please -”

And Rodimus shoves down the bitter feeling in his throat. “Once we find the crew,” Rodimus says. “Don’t worry, we won’t let this happen to anyone else - I - I’m so sorry,” he adds, “I’m so sorry I lost you, I should have -”

“It’s okay,” Drift says. “You needed to know this was happening, to - to tell them.”

“We’re getting out of here.” Rodimus says. “I’m getting you out of here, okay?” 

Drift presses his face tighter into Rodimus’s neck and tightens his grip. 

\---

“Here, come with me,” Rodimus says, “They sent me to bring you back, the Knights are this way.”

Drift follows Rodimus down the new hallway, “And - the crew? The -”

“With the Knights.” Rodimus says, not looking at him. 

“Well, Ratchet must be having a field day,” He says, because he isn’t in the crazy nightmare-verse anymore, and this Ratchet, real Ratchet, will have about five million questions and absolutely no patience for anything he considers ‘nonsense.’

He can picture Ratchet’s face now, a frown etched with skepticism, and smiles at the thought. Rodimus keeps walking, which is - 

\-  _ odd.  _ He doesn’t know what’s happened that would make Rodimus unwilling to at least tell him  _ something,  _ even a joke, about what is happening with the crew. 

“Rodimus -” he starts, as they make another turn, a narrower path, that seems to be in the opposite direction of where he had been going to exit the chamber, “the Knights - what are they - why did I end up here?”

Rodimus turns around to look at him. 

\---

Drift’s energon is dripping down Rodimus’s side. 

It feels strange - too thick, somehow, and yet it’s sliding quickly and smoothly through every groove in Rodimus’s plating as it drips down. He doesn’t know what they did to Drift that -

Drift lets out a low moan against Rodimus’s neck, his voice weak and quavering. Rodimus tries to move faster - his backstruts strain in protest, but since when has he let those kinds of boundaries stop him?

“It’s okay,” He says, “We’re going to get to Ratchet, you’re going to be okay, just hang on.”

There’s so much energon, Rodimus can feel it in his wheel wells, he must be leaving traces on the floor. 

What if Ratchet hadn’t gotten through? What if none of them - what if Rodimus was going the wrong way to get out, what if he couldn’t  _ find  _ a way out, what if - 

Drift is losing too much energon.

“C’mon, c’mon, we gotta -”

“No - you have to get out of here, don’t stop.” Drift says, “I don’t know if -”

“Just a minute - Drift -” Rodimus carries him into a small, side corridor - a dead end. “No, no - sit,” He kneels down to set Drift up against the wall, positioning himself so he has a good view of the corridor they turned out of, so he’ll see anyone coming before they see him. The light in the corridor, the light with no clear source, seems to have dimmed, slightly but noticeably.  “Just - just try and get some medical grade into you,” he says, pulling one of the cubes out of his subspace. 

“Not … I don’t need it, I -”

“C’mon,” Rodimus says, trying to smile, “you know Ratchet will kill me if I bring you back passed out because you were underfueled.” Drift doesn’t smile, his optics don’t so much as brighten. “He  _ made _ me pack this, y’know.  _ Medics _ . He’ll be real pissed at me if he thinks I forgot to give it to you. C’mon, I’ll heat it up for you, huh?” Rodimus adds, trying not to let his voice crack with desperation, looking at the energon pooling at Drift’s side. He lights up his hand and tries to smile again, wishing he had the precision to be able to weld Drift’s lines closed, but if there’s anything Ratchet has managed to drill into his skull about medicine is that a well intentioned patch job in the field could do more damage than good without training.

If they make it out of this he’ll get Ratchet to train him, get - get basic field medic qualifications. He’ll - 

Ratchet should be here. If he hadn’t let himself get separated from the crew - if he hadn’t -

He’ll find them. They’ll be okay. He’ll find them.

If he thinks it enough he can make himself believe it. 

Drift barely sips on the medical grade energon, his hands shaking. Rodimus reaches out to hold the cube for him, one hand on the cube, one hand over Drift’s, until, barely moments later, Drift stops and holds the cube away from himself. Rodimus weighs the benefits of trying to wheedle Drift into drinking more or getting moving again more quickly. 

Drift’s optics look - dull, blank. The medical grade doesn’t seem to be helping.

The sooner they get to Ratchet the better.

_ If you can find him, you left them, what kind of Captain -  _

“You sure you don’t want more?” He asks. 

Drift shakes his head. “Rodimus - you have to get out of here, you have to find -”

“We’ll get out, just - here, I’ll -” Rodimus reaches out an arm to help Drift up, puts an arm around him and moves to pick up his legs again.

“No - I’ll - I’ll try - it’ll be faster,”

Drift stumbles on his first step, Rodimus’s arm is all that keeps him upright. But he’s steadier on his next steps, so maybe the medical grade had helped. 

Rodimus focuses on keeping Drift upright into the corridor, so it’s Drift who points out the light.

“Look -”

Rodimus turns his head, and there, to the right, is a tunnel, the silver metal clean and gleaming as though it was new, and -

\- and there’s light at the end. 

“You found it,” Drift says, awe in his voice, and Rodimus stares at the light. 

\---

For a moment, when he turns to look at Drift, Rodimus’s optics seem - blank. 

“There was an error.” Rodimus says, finally, “The Knights’ systems recognized your sword as one of their own greatswords, but,” He continues, not looking at Drift, “They also recognized the - well, the gap in your spark casing.”

Drift glances down at his chest, for a split second thinking of the  _ current  _ wound to the plating and casing surrounding his spark, but then he realizes that Rodimus is talking about the gap where part of his casing had been removed for his Decepticon badge. 

It’s not like Rodimus to tiptoe. 

“They thought you might be a spy or a thief, since, y’know, and you had the greatsword,” Drift tightens his grip around his greatsword,  _ Wing’s  _ sword. - Which I told them was absurd, but - they had already removed you for isolation so they could test the purity of your spark.” 

Drift reaches up, covering the cut over his spark again. The cut has sliced through his autobot badge, the one Ratchet had given him, and he feels his internals sink at the realization. 

“But - really, Drift, you have nothing to worry about. It was a misunderstanding. I vouched for you, and they saw that your spark is pure. Once they took you, they recognized you as the one they sent the vision to - in Vector Sigma,” He says, with a small smile. “They wouldn’t have sent me here to get you if it wasn’t all going to be okay.”

_ “your spark is pure.” _

His blade through his own spark - could that  _ really  _ have been a  _ test _ -?

“They know everything you’ve done to get me here - to make this possible. They know that you’ve earned your place here. Once we get back, they’ll rule you innocent - formally, I mean - and absolve you.” Rodimus looks back at him and smiles, as Drift stops dead in his tracks. 

_ “You’re absolved, Drift. It’s okay.” _

A memory of a round chamber, judgement, a feeling of relief.

A  _ false  _ memory.

That this could be  _ real - _

A voice in his head, the one that sounds an awful lot like Ratchet, asks:  _ So they sent you the ‘vision’, but they weren’t  _ **_expecting_ ** _ you? They know everything you’ve done, but they can’t even  _ **_recognize_ ** _ you when you turn up? _

_ Why didn’t they let you go, if they knew you? _

“But - “ he starts, “- I was under guard. I was  _ paralyzed  _ \- I had to fight my way out -” he says, one hand tight on his greatsword and the other braced over his chest. “If - if they had already agreed to let me go -”

Rodimus doesn’t look at him, Drift only follows behind his silhouette in the hall. “It was a misunderstanding,” Rodimus says, “What had registered in the system didn’t get communicated to the guards at the right time. You must have  _ just _ missed the order that let them send me back.”

“But -” 

Rodimus turns around unexpectedly, Drift starts as he stops short. “I know it must have been terrifying. I wish there had been another way. But you  _ are  _ safe now.”

“The guards -” Drift uses the hand that was covering his spark to gesture to the bloodied blade of his greatsword. Rodimus is looking right at him, and the gash over his spark is right there, exposed, and for a terrifying moment Drift realizes that Rodimus is seeing his spark,  _ now _ , and he’s not - 

“You don’t need to worry about them.” Rodimus smiles, not seeming to react at all to what he’s seeing - Drift’s spark, or the bloody sword. Drift’s internals churn uncomfortably, at that and at Rodimus’s flippant tone. “Really, Drift, you’re fine, it was a misunderstanding. I know you were doing your best.” 

Rodimus must have been told that the Knights had put his sword through his spark for - for testing, he must not be reacting out of - politeness, as odd as that seems, because he knew Drift couldn’t avoid it.

“Come on,” Rodimus says, “Everything will make sense when we get to the Knights.”

\---

The light is too distant to clearly see what is at the end of the tunnel, but it gets brighter the further he walks, half-carrying Drift - they’re getting closer. 

They’re going to find the crew, they’ll find them, outside, or maybe they’re already coming down this tunnel, maybe in just a few moments he’ll see Ratchet, or Ultra Magnus, or Velocity - First Aid -

Drift falls with a groan, Rodimus tries to catch him but is pulled down to one knee trying to break his fall. 

“Okay,” Rodimus tries to catch his breath, still holding on to Drift’s arm. Drift has slumped back against the wall. “Okay, okay, we can - can take another break. Do you need -”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, and his voice is slightly choked, like there’s fluid blocking his throat. “You have to  _ go.  _ You have to -”

“I’m going to get you out of here, Drift.”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, and he has a gentle smile on his face that Rodimus  _ hates _ , because that - that’s the expression he remembers most, when Drift had said he had to take the fall, like he’s trying to break to Rodimus gently something that Rodimus already knows, like they should both know Drift is right already, it’s just a matter of Rodimus saying yes to the inevitable. “You - you’ve done enough. I - I’m not going to make it. You need -” Drift coughs, “You need to go on without me.”

Fuck the inevitable. ‘Inevitable’ is just another stupid word with too many syllables that  annoying people used to limit what’s possible, to put boundaries around what  _ he’s _ capable of.

He can always break those. 

“Shut up.” Rodimus says. “Shut up, I’m not leaving you.” 

“Rodimus -”

He’s not listening to that tone this time, he’s gone through too many nights of going over and over what he wishes he’d said, he’s not listening, not now, not like this. 

“You’re going to be fine. Just - just take some medical grade, and Ratchet will fix you up as soon as we get -”

“Rodimus…” Drift says, with the closest thing to a laugh he’s mustered so far. “I - I’m so glad I could see you again, I - you’ve - you’ve done enough, just to give me that.” He reaches out, puts one shaking hand on Rodimus’s face, stares at it like he’s trying to memorize it. “Thank you.”

Rodimus pushes the medical grade into Drift’s free hand with one hand, and with the other reaches up and grabs onto the hand that’s on his face. “Stop it. You’re going to be fine.”

Drift coughs again. “Don’t - don’t think what they did can be fixed.”

“Bullshit.” Rodimus says. “Ratchet can fix anything.” 

(He knows it isn’t true. He doesn’t think about all the reasons he knows it isn’t true. He  _ doesn’t. _ )

“Rodimus - you have to find the Knights, you can’t let me stop you - this is - they need to know.” Drift says, pushing away the medical grade. “This is why you came out here.”

“I came back to find you.” Rodimus says. “We all did.”

“Rodimus -”

Rodimus subspaces the medical grade again. “I am doing what I came for. I’m getting you out of here if I have to carry you.” He reaches over before Drift can protest again. “I’m sorry,” he says, as he grabs Drift - as gently as he can, guilt still curling inside him as he does it, and pulls him up into a fireman’s carry, and then forces himself, struts protesting, upright again, “but I’m not leaving you.”

\---

Rodimus silently leads him around another sudden turn, Drift starts at the change in direction. Even though Rodimus is facing away from him, he’s still conscious of the gash over his spark - he feels dangerously weak. He reaches into his subspace, sure there must be something in there that he can use to patch the wound - if Rodimus can melt the edges of the metal with - 

His hand meets empty space.

A surge of terror comes up into Drift’s throat, practically choking him, he reaches in further - there must be something, a chip from his casting set, even a single one of his energon cubes, even - 

He can’t feel anything, no matter how far he reaches, not even the points of the figurine Ratchet had given him, not even - 

Everything is gone. 

“Rodimus…” He starts, a plaintive tremor in his voice, and Rodimus looks back at him, “my - they took everything from my subspace - it’s all -”

It feels like the realization that his sword had been put through his spark. 

“Oh, that.” Rodimus says. “Come on, we just have to keep moving.”

“ _ Rodimus, _ ”

“The Knights took it, the Knights can give it back to you, Drift.” Rodimus says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Feeling like the floor has been kicked out from under him, Drift stares around at the tunnel, really looks at it. The light in the tunnel is dimming, less noticeable than it had been in the chamber, but he can still notice it when he looks further down the tunnel, and - 

“Rodimus,” He says, “I - I think we might be going the wrong way.”

Rodimus doesn’t even seem to notice the question, which - well. It’s odd, at the very least, for Rodimus not to be touchy about criticism of his sense of direction - or criticism, period.

“This tunnel -” Drift starts again, “it looks - it looks exactly like the way I was going when I was running back out of - out of where they had me. I think we’re going back the wrong way.

Rodimus barely glances back at him. “All of these passages look the same, Drift.” He says with a laugh, the ‘you’re imagining things’ well implied, “We’re heading toward the Knights, trust me.”

\---

Everything hurts. 

If - no, when,  _ when  _ they find Ratchet, and after Ratchet fixes Drift, he’s going to have to get Ratchet’s help with making sure his backstruts stop trying to personally murder him. Normally Ratchet would chew him out for trying something that was clearly going to damage his frame, but he figures since it was helping Drift, he’s safe on that front. 

He pauses for just a moment, leaning against the wall, letting it take some of Drift’s weight and his own, he can feel Drift start slightly at the sudden movement.

“Rodimus,”

“Just a minute, I just - I just need a second.”

“ _ Rodimus. _ ” Drift holds up his hand closer to Rodimus’s face, and Rodimus can see that the black of his hand is starting to fade to grey. 

“ _ No.”  _ Rodimus says, and shoves himself off the wall to stand upright and step forward, though he could swear Drift had gotten  _ heavier,  _ but he just stares at the light up ahead, even as the corridor seems to dim still more. 

“Rodimus.” Drift says. “ _ Rodimus.  _ You need to stop.”

“We’re almost there,” Rodimus says, “Just hang on, we’ll -”

“Rodimus, I’m  _ dying,  _ you can’t -”

“Ratchet.” Rodimus says, desperately. “Ratchet can fix it -”

“Rodimus, you don’t even know if he’s -”

“ _ I know! _ ” Rodimus says, louder than he meant to. “I know I don’t. But I - I have to  _ try _ . I’m not leaving you behind, so don’t -”

“Rodimus, you have to get out of here, you have to -”

“And I’m getting  _ you  _ out of here.”

“I’m not going to  _ make it  _ out of here.”

“You  _ are. _ ”

“Rodimus -”

“I’m not leaving you behind to die!” Rodimus says, “I’m not - I’m -”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, gently, too gently, “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is!” He shouts. “I let you go, and I - I thought about you _dying_ out there, alone, and - and never -”  He chokes on the words. Drift could have _died,_ somewhere out in the endless expanse of space, and he _would never have known_ , would - would have carried on hoping, hoping that Drift wasn’t somewhere, going cold and grey, hoping that he could find him again _-_ no. “I’m not letting that happen again.” He says, tightening his grip on Drift’s arms. 

“Rodimus,” Drift says, “ _ I’m going to die.  _ You - you can still fix this, you can find the Knights and you can fix this. You  -” He squirms slightly in Rodimus’s grip, and Rodimus can’t help but be encouraged that he has at least that much energy. “You have to let me  _ go.  _ Go - go be the hero.” He adds. “I know - I know I don’t have to tell you that. You know as well as I do -”

“ _ No. _ ” Rodimus says, pulling Drift up into a more secure position, not looking at any part of Drift, for fear of what he’ll see. “Not without you. Not without  _ everyone.  _ Not today.”

“You can’t keep me from dying, Rodimus.” Drift says, simply.

“Then I’ll  _ bury you. _ ” And it’s  _ that _ nightmare again, the one where there’s the casket drifting in space, except when he opens it it’s not his body, it’s Drift’s. Drift’s grey face he sees, optics closed, all the Spectralist funeral trappings, and - 

(He had thought that nightmare, at least, would stop coming after Drift came back. It hadn’t. Drift had been impossibly patient with his frantic comms in the middle of the night.)

“ _ Rodimus. _ ”

“I’ll  _ bury you  _ if - if I have to. I’ll - I’ll get your cloak, from the Lost Light, and we’ll - someone - Nautica can help me find something on the ship to build the casket from, and - and I’ll do  _ that  _ and I’ll - and I’ll have done that, at least.” He says. “And - then I’ll find the Knights for you. But I’m not leaving you down here, not now, not ever again.”

“Rodimus,” Drift sighs. “It doesn’t  _ matter _ .”

\---

As they come around the next corner, Drift’s optics catch and halt on a door -  _ the  _ door, the door he had come out of when he escaped, still slightly ajar, and -

He stops, dead in his tracks. 

“No.”

“Drift?”

“No, that’s -” He points at the door. “That’s  _ where I escaped from  _ \- we’re back at the same place!” He looks around frantically, half expecting guards to step out from the door, ‘misunderstanding’ or no. 

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Rodimus laughs. “Drift, this is the way to the Knights, I swear.”

Drift looks over the tunnel, searching for something that will convince him - there, a partial track from when he had skidded away from the door. “Look - that’s  _ my tire print _ , you can’t say -”

“Come on Drift,” Rodimus says, “Things shift around in here, maybe it’s just a trick of the light, I know you’re tired -”

The ground seems to shudder and melt, and then his tire print is gone.

“I’m not going back there.”

“This  _ is  _ the way to the Knights, Drift,” Rodimus says, a dark undercurrent in his voice, “The sooner we’re there, the sooner your trial is over, and you will be -”

“I’m not. I’m not going back.”

“Drift,” Rodimus says, “You’re  _ safe,  _ it’s  _ fine,  _ just follow me -”

“We are going the  _ wrong way. _ ”

“For fuck’s sake, Drift, it’s like you don’t even  _ want  _ this.”

“I -” Drift starts, cut by the sharp dismissal in Rodimus’s tone. 

He does want this. Badly.

But not like this.

“No. I - I do. But we need to stop, this is not -”

“For - just  _ come on,  _ you -”

And Rodimus reaches out and seizes Drift’s wrist, fingers gripping tight and pressing into the metal, yanking him forward -

This isn’t Rodimus. 

\---

"You -” Rodimus starts, craning his head at an awkward angle to try and see Drift’s face from where Rodimus is carrying him,  “- it's not  _ important _ ? Of course it's important, Drift, you - "

"Rodimus, you - we're on Cyberutopia, the - the trappings don't matter. I'm - I'm dying on holy ground.” He says, “I’ll - I’ll be there in the Afterspark.”

“ _ No.”  _ Rodimus grits out, because the thought of - the thought of - 

“You brought me here, that's -"

"And I'll get you out of here." Rodimus says. "I don't care if it's Cyberutopia, you're not - I'm not leaving you in a tunnel alone like this, it's not - you deserve better. This is - "

"We - we came here to find the Knights of Cybertron. And - Rodimus - there are - there are -  _ monsters, _ ” Drift says, “right under their feet, you have to understand that they need to know - you need to tell them, you need to  _ fix this _ , and - and save everyone."

" _ Everyone  _ includes you, Drift."

"You - you can't possibly think that's what's  _ important _ right now!" Drift says, and Rodimus can’t help but think that Drift sounds like Optimus, "You - you found me, that's - that's more than enough, Rodimus, I don't - "

"It's not enough. Not for you. Not for me."

"Rodimus - " Drift starts, "You know I already forgive you. You do know that, right?"

Rodimus doesn't say anything.

"I - everything I've done, it's been to bring you here." Drift says, and Rodimus's internals twist, "I want you to find the Knights, Rodimus, that - that's  _ everything _ . It's the least I can do," he adds, and Rodimus can almost hear the smile in his voice, "to forgive you for leaving me now, if it means you can find them."

"Well I won't forgive myself!" He shouts. "I - I haven't. I won't."

"Rodimus, you don't have to do this for me. It doesn't - "

"Yes I do! I'm the Captain! I've done it before, you - you know that." He stops. "You're my friend. You deserve - you deserve not to die, but - but if I can't get you to Ratchet in time, I - I'll do what you would have done for me. That's the least _ I _ can do."

"Rodimus, it - it doesn't even  _ matter _ . For once, can you - please -" Drift grits out, "- focus."

"It  _ does  _ matter, it matters to you, and it matters to me, you’re the one who  _ taught  _ me -"

His response is interrupted by Drift purging over his shoulder, energon flooding down his side, crawling, slipping down his plating. 

"Primus, I -" he stops, kneels down to help Drift off of his shoulders, "C'mon, it's okay, you're okay, just breathe, you're okay," He says, over and over, holding Drift's shoulders up as he spits up energon, as it drips from the corners of his mouth, and Rodimus can't avoid looking at the way the red glyphs on Drift's cheeks have faded to nearly imperceptible shadows on his face. 

"Just - go." Drift chokes out. "I  - just - I - I don't want - I don't want you to see - not like this."

He doesn’t want to watch Drift die. He thinks - he thinks some part of him won’t survive it, the part of him that feels like it’s on that rack they’d had Drift on, just watching Drift like this. He feels a sudden rush of guilt for that other Drift, the one who had to bury that other him. 

But leaving Drift to die here, turning his back and leaving him to be alone, again, here? No part of him can live with that. 

"I don't care about that," Rodimus says, as gently as he can manage around the lump in his throat. "I'm not leaving. Besides, you've seen me worse, right?"

Drift doesn't manage a smile, doesn’t even reach for it, practically scowling at Rodimus, energon still dripping from his lips. "Just listen to me, for once, Rodimus, can't you just do this  _ one thing _ -"

“ _ No! _ ” Rodimus says. “No, I can’t, I can’t just  _ walk away  _ when -”

“Just - stop.”

\---

**_Then_ **

“Hey!”

Drift tries to ignore the way his optics suddenly snap into clearer focus, the way his engine revs into higher gear, and his right foot shifts back without thinking. It’s just Hot Rod - even though his processor only registers that after it’s already reacted to the sudden sound as a threat. 

For better or worse, Hot Rod doesn’t seem to notice his momentary alarm, bouncing up to him with a grin that spells Drift’s new favorite kind of trouble. “Hey hey hey,” 

Drift can’t help but grin back.

“I found a new spot outside base, looks like it’s gonna be  _ perfect  _ for racing,” Hot Rod’s wheels spin, seemingly without thinking about it, kicking up dust around his feet. “You wanna come check it out with me? Get in a rematch?”

“I didn’t think  _ I  _ was the one who needed a rematch,” Drift says, letting a teasing edge slip into his grin. 

“Pff.” Hot Rod rocks back on his heels, like he doesn’t remember Drift _totally outracing_ _him_ last time, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”  

“Are we allowed to go off base yet? I thought the scouts weren’t done sweeping the area.”

“I mean…” Hot Rod starts, “ _ technically  _ we’re not supposed to, but I mean, we’re done scouting  _ that  _ area, that’s how I spotted it, so it’s not like it’s  _ actually  _ not safe.”

Because that’s what Hot Rod’s like, of course, he pushes boundaries wherever he finds them, even and especially his own - ignoring or circumventing or, more frequently, heedlessly breaking through, racing forward, and, as far as Drift could tell, he’d yet to find something that would stop him for long. It’s ridiculous, and reckless, but it’s let him to careen right over the boundaries so many of the other Autobots drew around Drift himself.

“And I mean,” Hot Rod continues, “you’re new, they can’t expect you to know the rules yet, so if there’s gonna be yelling, Kup’ll yell at me, and  _ that’s _ alright, I know how to distract him,” Hot Rod elbows him, and Drift is surprised to find nothing changes, nothing shifts in his processor to register the friendly elbow as an attack. 

He’s either spent too much time around Hot Rod, or not enough, he thinks, as Hot Rod continues, something about Kup having a story for every occasion, true or not. 

Hot Rod grins at Drift, and Drift decides it’s probably the latter. “Yeah, let’s go.” He says, and starts for the exit.

“No no no, this way -” Hot Rod says, and Drift feels fingers grabbing and pulling at his wrist. 

There’s nothing artful in how he moves next, turning around and slamming into Hot Rod, knocking him to the ground and his grip off of Drift’s wrist.

“What the  _ hell _ ?”

Drift must look absolutely mortified as his systems cool down, because Hot Rod just starts laughing from where he’s lying, flat on his back on the ground, staring up at Drift. 

“I’m sorry -”

“I got it, don’t grab the ex-con,” Hot Rod says, still laughing as he pushes himself to his feet, and the phrase stings, but not at all in the same way it does when others spit the same words. Hot Rod just lets it slip out, like he thinks nothing of saying it - and for all Drift knows he doesn’t. 

But - it’s not that. Not about the badge he used to wear. It’s him. 

Good things don’t happen when people grab him.

“Don’t worry about it, you just caught me by surprise. I’d’ve been fine if I’d been ready.” Hot Rod continues, rolling with easy bravado. Drift looks at him skeptically. “What? I  _ would _ ,” he says, and smiles easily, and Drift’s too grateful for that smile to bother to argue the point. 

“Still,” Drift says, “I’m sorry. I’m trying -”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll give you a heads up next time. Or ask. Whatever’s good.”

“Uh - yeah, yeah.”

“I meant to say,” Hot Rod says, breezing right past the issue of having been tossed to the ground, “we shouldn’t go out the main exit, we should go out the side way, it’s closer and, y’know.” He reaches out and then changes tack immediately, pointing the direction he wants them to go. 

“Okay - yeah. Okay.” 

Hot Rod’s face lights up.

He beats Hot Rod again, but the margin’s narrower this time. Still it means they’ll have to have another rematch.

Drift is more pleased about that than he thought he’d be. 

Of course, Kup does catch them sneaking back in, but Hot Rod, true to his word, steps right in front of Drift to say it was his idea, and nudges Drift into sneaking away once he’s gotten Kup off on a tangent about some racer he had known.

He’d winked at Drift as he’d made good his escape, and Drift figures there are worse things to be than ridiculous. 

\---

**_Now_ **

Rodimus had kept his word - or tried to, he’d forgotten his fair share in the weeks following that particular memory, because that was Rodimus, who hardly understood the word boundary, but he’d learned, and - and he’d kept trying, including what was - probably for the best - a  _ short _ period when he’d cheerfully shouted ‘ _ hot stuff incoming!’  _ if he wanted to put an arm around Drift’s shoulder, or give him a hug.

And, somehow, Rodimus’s own field became like a sign, now, that anything that came wasn’t meant to hurt him. 

But he still didn’t do that - grabbing Drift that way, like he was trying to drag him down - not without warning, or not without immediately letting go and trying to pass it off with a quick apology, and that hardly ever happened these days. 

He’d drawn a line, and Rodimus had braked. 

(Rodimus, who never could draw boundaries for himself, for better and for worse, when it mattered, ran through them heedlessly until he ran out of fuel, or let others run over him until he snapped, threw himself on grenades to be the one to die alone. He’d stopped.)

“If you’re Rodimus,” he says, trying to force his voice not to betray his panic. “Let go and step back.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Fingers are still tight around his wrist, and that face isn’t Rodimus’s. 

\---

“No,” Rodimus says, still kneeling beside Drift. “No, I’m staying.”

“Why,” Drift stares up at him, fire in his optics, “do you have to make this so  _ difficult. _ ”

“I -”

Drift ducks his head back down. “Why can’t you just listen to me? You  _ never  _ listen, haven’t you - can’t you just let me  _ have  _ this, you -” There’s a low growl that he can hear building in Drift’s throat; Rodimus feels like he’s been slapped. “Do you have to dictate how I  _ die? _ ”

“No - I - “ Rodimus starts. “No. But you don’t need to die alone.”

“You’ve  _ rescued  _ me, isn’t that  _ enough? _ ” Drift snarls.

“No. No.” Rodimus says, “You - you taught me that the rites are important, they’re - they’re the last mark, they’re the last measure of devotion from the people who lo-”

“ _ Stop  _ \- just -  _ stop, _ ” Drift shouts. “None of it  _ matters,  _ why can’t you - it’s not  _ important,  _ can’t you even see the -”

“It  _ is  _ important.” Rodimus says, a sinking feeling in his core, the one he’d had when he’d looked at the apparition of Slinger’s face, as he stares at Drift, energon no longer dripping off him, colors frozen mid-fade. “Drift knows that. Don’t you?”

Drift stares at him, and Rodimus doesn’t think he’s imagining the momentary flash of panic across his face. “Of course I do - you - how could you even say that?”

Rodimus watches him, steady. Drift’s face twists into a snarl. 

“What - how is this  - how am I not _good_ enough for you? I’m telling you to _go_ \- go be a hero, isn’t that what you _want_?” Drift shouts. “Why won’t you just _leave?_ ”

“Not without Drift.” Rodimus says, standing up and looking down at the figure. “You’re not him, are you?”

“You - you  _ willful, obstinate -”  _ Not-Drift practically bursts with frustration; Rodimus takes a step back, “redemption, catharsis,  _ heroism _ \- what else in five hells do you  _ want?” _

Rodimus stares at the stolen face of his best friend. “I want Drift back.”

\---

“You’re not Rodimus.”

Not-Rodimus stares at him. “ _ What? _ ”

Drift tightens his grip on his greatsword. “You’re not Rodimus.”

“Are you -” Not-Rodimus doesn’t finish his sentence, just snarls, and yanks Drift’s wrist again.

Drift throws the doppelganger into the wall, yanking his wrist free.  _ “Don’t touch me. _ ” 

“What the  _ hell  _ is  _ wrong  _ with you?” Not-Rodimus shouts at him. “What the hell - what the hell do you  _ fucking want _ ? We - this is  _ salvation _ \- how is this  _ not what you  _ **_want_ ** ?”    
  
“Not like this.” Drift says, almost shuddering at the thought, looking at the open door and bracing his free arm over the hole in his chest. “I’m  _ not  _ going in there again, I’m not -”

He won’t wake up helpless like that again.

“You’re not Rodimus.” He says, surety in his voice, hoping, as terrible as it would be, that he’s right. 

Not-Rodimus face twists, and he slams his fist against the wall behind him in frustration, then winces abruptly a moment after. 

“You  _ damned fool _ .” He growls at Drift, abruptly shoving himself away from the wall and walking back towards Drift, “Just  _ listen - _ ”

Drift holds out his greatsword, points it at - at  _ Not-Rodimus, _ tries not to let it shake. “Don’t.”

Not-Rodimus  _ laughs _ , and it sounds nothing like Rodimus, and that is enough to banish his doubts. “And what are you going to do with  _ that _ , little warrior?”

Drift ignores the taunt. “Show me the way out of here. The real way.”

Not-Rodimus laughs, louder. “None, for you. This only ends in our victory.” He says, reaching out to run a hand along Drift’s greatsword, the edges of his hand seeming to melt and run into the grooves. He chuckles. “You cannot hope to defeat us with weapons we forged.”

Drift lowers the sword, pulling it away from Not-Rodimus’s hand, and steps back. “Try and stop me, then” He says, turning to walk away.

“They were  _ fools _ to offer you peace.” Not-Rodimus shouts after him, and he stops, looking back at the snarl twisting Not-Rodimus’s face. “He and I - we know what you are. You were made for me. Even more than the rest, you - you were. You’ll never be anything else.” 

“Who  _ are  _ you?”

Not-Rodimus laughs by way of answer. “Look at you, little fool, you still think  _ Hot Rod  _ is going to save you. You should have taken what they gave you.” He says, and Drift watches, horrified, as his whole body melts, flowing and merging back into the walls, leaving only a dark stain on the smooth silver.

Drift steps back towards where Not-Rodimus had just stood, his spark pounding in his throat  _ not real not real not real  _

His hand hovers, for a moment, over the wall, shaking, as the darkness begins to fade away in ripples, just like his tire print. 

The wall is still there, still solid under his touch, even though for a moment more it seems to flow, like metal melting, but cool to the touch. Then it solidifies again, the same smooth wall, all silver, with no sign that anything had changed, not even the light, still slowly dimming, and - 

His vision is steady, nothing glitches, he can feel the floor under his feet, his sword is solid and real in his hands -

He runs. 

\---

_ “Fool.” _ Not-Drift says. “Fivefold damned fool, you had to come down  _ here -” _

_ “Where is Drift? _ ” Rodimus shouts, and it echoes along the tunnel. 

Not-Drift’s eyes go unfocused for a moment, and then he practically  _ vibrates  _ with rage. He’s still on his knees on the floor of the tunnel, but he no longer looks vulnerable, he looks - predatory. Curled and ready to strike. “You will not find him. We will drive you out, and then you will understand. You think you know about fighting a war, Hot Rod of Nyon? You do not know nearly enough for us.” He says, laughing. 

“Well,  _ go on,”  _ Rodimus says, aiming his guns. “Whoever-you-are of  _ shitty tunnels under Cyberutopia,  _ what do you think you’re going to do to me?”

“You think we want to do something as simple as hurt you? No. You are ours.” Not-Drift says. “Soon enough you’ll understand. Soon, you will be even less alone.”

Oh, great, another jackass who only wanted to talk in opaque doublespeak. 

“I don’t give a shit.” Rodimus says. “Tell me where Drift is.”

Not-Drift laughs, and laughs, and  _ melts  _ into the floor, and Rodimus wants to vomit at the sight of it, far, far too close to the melting bodies of Slinger and Shutter, far too close to burning metal, but the figure does not leave behind molten remains, but merges into the floor, leaving only a dark patch that Rodimus can’t bring himself to investigate. 

In the stillness as the echoing laughter fades away, Rodimus’s bravado disappears, he backs away further from the space where Drift - Not-Drift had been - and now the light in the distance seems to be taunting him. 

He failed.

He - he was an idiot to be fooled for so long, and he’s left - he’s left Drift out there for all this time, he - 

(Fake or not, Drift turning grey like  _ that _ will haunt his nightmares, now)

He tried to carry  _ that -  _ that  _ thing,  _ and - 

He lands on his knees.

\---

**_Then_ **

Drift hands him a plain training sword.

“I thought meditation involved - well, a lot of sitting,” Rodimus says, as he takes the hilt of the sword.

“Sometimes,” Drift says, with a wry smile, “but, seeing as I  _ have  _ met you before, I have an inkling that anything that involves sitting still will last all of a minute,”

Rodimus certainly can’t argue with that - Drift smiles at him fondly, so the words don’t quite sting.

“No,” Drift continues, “I wanted to teach you a piece of moving meditation, it’s basically a kata, and moving through it is meant to help restore focus and build mindfulness.”

Sword practice, that he could do. “Okay, what am I doing?”

“Watch me,” Drift says, holding up his training sword. He holds for a moment, optics shuttered, and then reignites them, stepping forward in smooth, precise movements. 

It is not like a combat drill, that much is easy to see, but Drift has clearly practiced it with the same dedication, showing all of the same expertise Rodimus has seen whenever they’ve trained together. His face is somehow more relaxed, though, focused but - content. 

Drift moves with grace, and - don’t get him wrong, he’d watch Drift in combat training until his optics burnt out, but this - this is something more. It’s not just that he feels like he’s watching art - though he does, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to - but the peaceful expression on Drift’s face, the one he so, so rarely has - it’s something even more beautiful, and Rodimus’s spark feels so bright he almost wonders if the glow was seeping out beyond his chest plates. 

Drift spins at last to a halt, shutters his optics again, and holds, before standing upright and reactivating his optics. 

“You see?” He says, and Rodimus starts, checking his internal chronometer - it says it hadn’t even been a minute; he checks it again, because that seems impossibly short for what he’s just witnessed.

“Could you show me - one more time?” Rodimus says, because there’s no way he could even begin to repeat what Drift had just done.

“Of course,” Drift says, smiling at Rodimus’s expression, and Rodimus tries to focus on Drift’s footwork and the movement of his sword, really, he does. He lasts about five seconds, but he  _ does  _ try. 

“Alright, now you try, and then we can walk through it again.” Drift says, and Rodimus stands up. 

He holds up his training sword in what he thinks is a good approximation of Drift’s opening stance, steps through, focused on the motions until his memory trails off - he steps through instead, there was a spin, that he remembers - he tries his best up until he loses his balance, landing awkwardly before he looks up at Drift. 

Drift almost looks like he’s going to laugh at the absurdity of Rodimus’s landing, like he used to laugh at Rodimus’s more ridiculous moments - they do exist, he’ll admit - but Drift quickly schools his expression. “Okay, let’s go through it piece by piece, then.”

He steps through each section of the kata, explaining what he’s doing with each movement, and after each section has Rodimus follow, stepping through, piece by piece, until they’re done. Afterwards, he has them step through each section together, Drift reaching out to guide Rodimus’s more jittery movements, pointing out where Rodimus should inhale, hold, and exhale. 

“Okay, now you’re going to step through it all together.” Drift says, but when Rodimus stutters not even a third of the way through, Drift stops him, gently pressing a hand on top of his own, which is gripped tightly around the hilt of the sword. “Relax, you’re overthinking it.” He says, and Rodimus tries to loosen his grip such that his fingers don’t dent the sword hilt. “Breathe,” Drift tells him, and he does. “Shutter your optics,” Rodimus does so without thinking. “Just focus on my voice, I’ll talk you through it.” Rodimus nods. 

“Okay, start at the beginning.” Rodimus brings his feet back to a neutral stance. “Breathe - in...out. Raise your sword…”

His concentration on his movements, his focus on Drift’s voice is so complete that everything else seems to fade, tangents and worries smoothed over by his focus on following Drift’s instruction, without him even noticing. Drift’s field is around him the whole way, he is so close, and Rodimus doesn’t even start when he feels Drift’s hands, unseen, on his plating, guiding him when he falters.

Nyon’s religion, if you could call it that, was a chaotic collection of myth and stories told in the waning hours, cobbled-together ritual and occasional muttered prayer - no kind of religious practice like Drift’s, nothing so cohesive, nothing unified.

He knows stories that felt right, though, moments that felt part of something greater, like a promise of something better. He knows that even seeing the Matrix for the first time had felt like that, warm and right and sure. And when the Matrix had bonded to him - it had been that feeling, a thousandfold. 

He has faith in the rightness, the truth of that feeling, more than anything else.  

This moment, as he turns, focused on nothing else but his hands on the sword and Drift’s hands on his, Drift’s voice leading him on, feels like that.

When he comes to the end, he stops, holds, breathes.

After a moment, Drift says, “you can look,” with almost a laugh, and Rodimus reactivates his optics and meets Drift’s. Drift smiles at him, and nods with approval, and Rodimus thinks his own smile could stretch wider than the whole ship.

“That was good,” Drift says, and Rodimus’s internals squirm with delight.

“Yeah, I - yeah.” Rodimus says, “Drift -” And his own spark flares up, just saying his name -

He doesn’t claim to get everything Drift talks about when he talks about Spectralism - he certainly hadn’t thought meditation would ever be something that made sense to him - but this - this he understood. That feeling of rightness - the peaceful expression on Drift’s face - 

He understood why that was important. 

“Thank you. For showing me.” He says, finally. 

Drift smiles, and he thinks he could look at that until his optics burned out, too.

\---

**_Now_ **

It matters. 

Maybe someday he will have to do Drift’s funeral rites, or Drift will have to do his, or one of the crew - Magnus, probably - will be left to do theirs, together.

It will not be today.

What he could pry out from the doppelganger's doublespeak was this: Drift is alive. More than the doppelganger’s words, Rodimus believes Drift is alive, spark deep, he believes it.

Drift is alive. 

He made a promise, in coming back. He will not let him die. He will not let that nightmare become true. 

He gets up and walks down the tunnel, away from the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veto_power_over_clocks performed the scene where Rodimus realizes 'Drift' isn't really Drift, it personally killed me and you can listen to it here! http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/177721827799/so-veto-power-over-clocks-performed-a-scene-from <3 thank you so much cee!
> 
> If you're interested in the sort of issues with Drift and touch that show up in this chapter, I can't recommend Owlix's fic 'Affection' highly enough https://archiveofourown.org/works/3524294 - my headcanons have been shaped by that fic in particular, and a lot of Owlix's writing, (seriously, the Driftrod and the Megatron-centric fics are some of my absolute favorites)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: After making his way through a false Nyon, Rodimus found a false Drift, who tries to fake his own death in order to get Rodimus to leave him behind and go back to the surface, significantly underestimating Rodimus’s pigheaded stubbornness. Rodimus turns around and resumes his quest to find Drift after he realizes that he’s being Drift-fished, and the fake Drift disappears.
> 
> Drift, having fought his way out of a guarded chamber, encounters, unsurprisingly, a fake Rodimus, who tries to lead him back to the chamber under the pretext of leading him to the Knights. After the fake goes too far, Drift realizes the truth and turns back to make good his escape. 
> 
> Whoever our antagonists are, they seem awfully fond of the number five…
> 
> Chapter Songs: Physical State of the Stars - Alan Silvestri; Hands on the Water - Skyhill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Thanks for your patience, everyone, and happy first of Halloween!
> 
> You know the drill, mind the tags. Thanks!

 

Drift runs. 

He runs around each corner that Rodimus - not-Rodimus - had led him down, that he’d followed him - 

He runs until his internal diagnostics start popping up with warnings about low fuel, until he makes the connection between that and the leaden feeling in his legs. 

Not safe. Not safe. Not safe. 

He’s not safe. 

He slows down, just slightly, moving closer to the walls where the shadows are deeper, all sensors on high alert for anything, for more guards to come down the tunnel, for someone else to -

The black stain on the wall sticks at his memory, the way not-Rodimus had melted back down into the metal, and if the walls, if the place itself is against him, there’s no way, there’s no way he can - 

He’d thought he was safe. 

Rodimus - 

It hadn’t been  _ Rodimus.  _ But he - 

He - 

In the fading light, the walls might as well be closing in. The walls are against him, and he can’t get out, he’s never going to see - 

He can’t get home, and he - he needed to see them again. Rodimus and Ratchet and Percy and Magnus and -

Somewhere in the pits of his engine, that loss feels worse than losing the promise of the Knights.

He can almost feel the shadow of Rodimus’s - not-Rodimus’s - arm around him, and the void where it is not feels like it’s dragging at him. He misses it, and hates himself for it.

He slows down, and tells himself it’s to conserve fuel, not to avoid whatever is coming next down the hall. 

Maybe it would have been easier if he hadn’t woken up from the nightmare.

He hates himself for thinking that, too. He forces himself to keep moving, shutting off the warnings and just moving forward.

One of his proximity sensors pings, and he tightens his grip on his greatsword, braced for more guards to have finally come to try and drag him back to the chamber. 

He steadies the sword, braced. They’ll have to kill him first. 

The crew will probably never find him. Rodimus, Ratchet - Ratchet will never know how he died, and he feels a surge of guilt at that, and -

And he thinks he’s imagining it, when he sees the white and red figure down the hall, that the guilt is making him think he sees Ratchet, but it tracks with his proximity sensors, and it -

His optics blur, and he almost can’t see Ratchet properly, almost imagines that he sees him in his old frame, standing at the base of the ramp of his shuttle, telling him - 

Telling him that he’d come to bring him back.

“Drift?”

He can’t keep running.

Ratchet reaches him, he does, he came back, he found him -

Drift falls to his knees, but Ratchet’s hands are there.

He falls forward, into Ratchet’s arms -

\- and blacks out.

\---

Rodimus walks into the shadows; one step after the other. His fists are ready at his sides, and he watches the walls suspiciously, should another doppelganger try to slide out from the silver metal and stand in his way. 

He is going to find the real Drift. 

No matter what this - this twisted maze decides to throw at him, no matter the flame or the fakes or the closing doors - no matter what, he  _ will  _ find Drift. 

He watches the walls, and shoves down his guilt at the fact that he’s  _ still  _ backtracking on the path not-Drift led him on, he’s still  _ behind _ where he had been before he had let himself be tricked, and - 

_ Drift, turning grey, and -  _

No. He’s going to find Drift, alive. No matter  _ how  _ many more doppelgangers he has to face.

“ _ You  _ never  _ listen! _ ”

He shutters his optics for a moment. He can hear any venom in Drift’s voice if it means getting him back.

He turns a corner, back into the main corridor, and has a moment of relief at being back on the right track. 

“Rodimus?”

He knows that voice.

He looks back and up around the corner, then down, and then down again. 

There, in the distance, silhouetted in the light, is Minimus; irreducible. 

\---

Drift wakes up.

The first thing he sees is Ratchet’s hands, blurred. Drift resets his optics, and they’re steady - Ratchet must have been resetting the tools in his wrists. 

“Good, you’re awake.” Ratchet says, from above him. As more systems come online, Drift realizes he’s sitting up against a wall -  the wall right next to where he fell. Ratchet’s kneeling next to him, clearly having finished an exam. “All your systems checked out, knew it was only a matter of time. You must have been exhausted.” 

He turns away from Drift, moving as if to stand up. Drift reaches out, grabs his arm, feels it solid under his fingers. But - 

“You’re - real?” Drift asks, desperately. “Are - are you real?”

“Am I - of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” Ratchet says, shaking his head dismissively, not looking at Drift. 

“There was,” Drift says, letting Ratchet help him up, “a fake Rodimus. Not-Rodimus. He -” Drift shakes his head and leans against Ratchet’s side.

_ “Rodimus? _ ” Ratchet snorts. “Come on,” he adds, “we need to get out of here.”

Drift looks down as Ratchet helps him along the hall, and at the sight of the glow from his own chest almost stops him in his tracks. 

The wound over his spark is still there, unpatched, light still spilling out. He braces his free arm over it, instinctively - it’s not that he - he  - it’s  _ Ratchet  _ \- but - it should be a proper ceremony, not a  _ wound. _ He looks at Ratchet, to see if - but Ratchet hadn’t said anything about it. He had said all of Drift’s systems were fine - 

If Ratchet says it’s fine, it’s fine. He tightens his arm over his chest and tries not to think about it.

His arm over his chest makes him think of something else he’s lost.

“Ratchet,” he says, “Ratchet - they took everything in my subspace. Everything’s gone.” 

“It’s fine,”

“It’s  _ not  _ fine.” Drift says, “Ratchet - I had your present in there, I’m so sorry.”

He still remembers the first time he’d seen the little figure, back on Ratchet’s shuttle, sitting in the sunlight from the cockpit windows, still remembers the way the miniature versions of his own finials had poked at his fingers. 

Ratchet had told him he should keep it, and - and no matter where he’s gone, he’s had that reminder.

And now he’s lost it.

“It’s okay,” Ratchet says, glancing at him quickly, “ _ you  _ getting out of here is what’s important.”

_ Out of here -  _

“The crew -” Drift says, “The storm - Ratchet, what happened to everyone? Where are they?”

\---

“Mag - Minimus?”

Rodimus runs along the tunnel towards his First Officer, and doesn’t stop until he reaches him, as he is striding towards Rodimus with nothing less than the utmost dignity, even at half Rodimus’s height.

Rodimus reaches out for Minimus’s shoulders, nearly lifts him off his feet in his enthusiasm before he thinks better of it - he knows Minimus doesn’t like being in his irreducible frame, and he doesn’t like being reminded of his shorter height even in his middle frame - with the exception of Meg - of  _ a certain person who will remain unnamed _ , Rodimus thinks, wincing internally.

“You - you’re alright. Are you alright? Where are the others?” He looks Minimus up and down, searching for signs of injury, the image of Drift - not-Drift - leaking energon at the forefront of his mind. 

Minimus looks uninjured, if a bit ruffled by Rodimus’s energy. “I am quite fine.” He says, and Rodimus momentarily relaxes and lets go of his shoulders.

“I knew you’d make it,” Rodimus says, hoping it sounds like it’s true.

“The crew,” Minimus frowns, “is still outside,” 

“You - but then - how did you - how did you get here?” Rodimus stutters out, “Did you find a way through? Why didn’t the others? Did you have to -” He stops himself, barely, from asking why he’s in his ‘ _ irreducible’  _ frame; waves a hand vaguely instead.

“We - located a fault in the perimeter defences.” Minimus says, “However, it was only small enough to be exploited by my true - that is, my irreducible form.”

“I’m sorry,” Rodimus says; Minimus ignores him. “Hey,” he adds, adding a joking lilt to his tone in the hopes that it will distract Minimus from his discomfort, “you can join the club of being the only one who can make it through the gaps in this place, Mr. Fastball-Special.”

Minimus looks at him blankly.

“It’s a - nevermind. You are the one threw me in here, in any case, so,”

“That,” Minimus says, flat, “I did.”

So much for distraction. 

“In any case, the fault will not remain at the same size for long,” Minimus says, in the same voice he uses for reporting maintenance on the Lost Light, “the intact members of the crew are working on clearing the way now,” Minimus says, “the opening should be large enough to accommodate your frame by the time we return.”

“The  _ intact  _ members of the crew?”

Minimus nods. “This way,” he says, turning and gesturing back down the tunnel. “We need to return to the crew, quickly.”

“We - they’re not - aren’t they  _ following _ you?” He asks, utterly baffled. “Aren’t we -?”

“No,” Minimus shakes his head. “The crew needs you - we need to get back to them.”

“Minimus,” Rodimus starts, terror starting to creep into his energon lines. “ _ What happened to the crew? _ ” 

\---

“The storm?” Ratchet starts, “oh, that. You were the only one who disappeared in that, everyone else came through fine.”

“And - where are they now?”

Ratchet shrugs. “On their way to the Knights, I suppose. I left just before they were all setting off again.”

_ they were all setting off again _

“Rodimus -?” the question slips out of his mouth.

Ratchet looks at him. “Yeah, he was with Optimus. Are you feeling alright? My scan might have missed something with your processor…”

“It’s - fine.” Drift says. “Sorry.”

Ratchet grips his shoulder, reassuringly, and his expression softens. “It’ll be alright, kid, we’ll catch up with them. We always do.” He says. “I’ve got you. Trust me.” 

\---

Minimus stares at him. “Rodimus, several of the crew were injured when - you came through. And then, extricating ourselves fully proved - perilous.” 

“ _ Perilous _ ?”

He shakes his head. “This place - it is nothing less than a deathtrap, Rodimus. Venturing here was a fool’s errand; we need to return to the others, it’s our only chance to not lose anyone to this place.”

“Not lose - we already  _ lost  _ someone, Minimus, that’s why we’re  _ here!”  _ He says, trying not to let his voice crack. “We lost  _ Drift!” _

“And if we don’t leave now, we will lose more.”

“You -” Rodimus shakes his head. “We all decided to come here, to try to save Drift. Are - are you telling me this is  _ worse  _ than anything else we’ve faced? Anything else  _ this crew _ has faced?”

“Rodimus -” Minimus sighs. “This place - whatever this place is, it was designed to stop us, to  _ kill  _ us. We cannot face it. Certainly not with so many of our number already injured.”

“But -” Rodimus starts, “Ratchet - First Aid,  _ Velocity _ , are - are you telling me that none of them can - can fix them?” The energon in his engine goes cold at the thought that one of them could be the one injured. If Ratchet’s hurt - oh, Drift is going to  _ kill  _ him.

Minimus doesn’t respond. 

“Or - or we can send some of the crew back, to help the wounded out. Thunderclash can probably carry someone, and maybe -” This is absolutely a strategic command suggestion based on the fact that Thunderclash is taller and able to carry more of the smaller bots, and not an excuse to get rid of him.  _ Obviously.  _

“Rodimus,” Minimus says, flatly, “We need to go  _ back.” _

_ \--- _

“Trust me.”

“I do,” Drift tries to smile. “Of course I do.” 

Ratchet leads him around another corner, he rests his aching head against Ratchet’s shoulder for a moment. “The others,” he says, trying not to think about how many more dark tunnels, still getting darker, they will have to walk through to get out of here, “you got out of the storm - what - what did you _ see _ ? Was there - did they see something that showed the way to the Knights, or -?”

Ratchet shrugs, Drift straightens his head. “Cyclonus was saying something about the signs, but it looked about the same to me. I wasn’t paying much attention, to be honest.” 

“And - here?” Drift asks, “How did you get down here? Does - does anyone have any idea about what happened to me?”

“What happened?” Ratchet starts, “I found the crevasse, I assumed the storm just knocked you down here, and you were disoriented trying to get out. Lot of turns in here.”

“The  _ storm -  _ no, Ratchet, something - someone dragged me down here.” He says. “There was - I was in a room, they put my greatsword through my spark, but I was unconscious, I was - I was dreaming. Having a nightmare. And there were guards, and - and the room was full of soldiers.”

“Weird.” Ratchet says. 

“ _ Ratchet - _ ”

“Soldiers, on Cyberutopia?” He says the name without rancor or skepticism, still not looking at Drift.

“Like the stone soldiers, but - metal. Like us.” 

Ratchet hums but otherwise shows no sign of recognition when Drift refers to the stone soldiers. “We’ll have to warn the others when we get back up top.”

“Back up -” Drift says, “the same way you got down? How did you -”

“Found the crevasse, climbed down, found this tunnel,” Ratchet shrugs. “The climbing was a bit of a pain, but, it was doable. Just had to backtrack - only so many places you could be.”

_ doable _

“Did you - did you tell the others where you were going?”  _ Did you give anyone else the chance to come with you to find me? Did they choose to abandon me? _

“First Aid knows his job,” Ratchet says, “I’m sure they figured it out.”

“But - don’t you think they’ll - “ Drift takes a breath. “Did - did everyone think the same thing? That I was just - lost in the storm?”

“The - general conclusion was that you were probably dead.”

That - that sounds wrong, coming out of Ratchet’s mouth. Cybertronians are hard to kill, and though Ratchet’s seen more Cybertronians die than most, he still knows that as well as anyone. They all know that. How - 

“Optimus said we needed to carry on to find the Knights, and Rodimus agreed.” Ratchet says, then looks at Drift. “You look surprised.” He adds, like it’s nothing that Rodimus - that the crew - left Drift. To be expected.

“Why didn’t  _ you  _ think I was dead?” 

Ratchet looks at him, startled. “Just - just knew. Intuition, really.”

Drift resets his memory files, plays back the last five seconds to make sure his audials registered it correctly. They had.

\---

“But - you said you’d do this with me -!” Rodimus clenches his fists, tries to breathe; he’s more upset than he should be, he  _ knows  _ he’s more upset than he should be, but knowing doesn’t make the edge of the hot clenching feeling of betrayal around his engine go away, or cool his processor. “ _ We all decided _ ,” he repeats, “We all - we all said we’d come here, that we’d find Drift, and you’re - and you’re -”  _ you’re turning your back on me.  _

“Rodimus.” Minimus says, and he knows that tone of voice, oh, he knows that tone of voice very well.

“Don’t ‘ _ Rodimus _ ’ me -” he says, “You - you said you’d search with me - that you’d come back for Drift - that -”

“Rodimus,  _ calm down  _ -” Minimus says, “You’re being irrational.”

“ **_I’m being_ ** -” He shouts, and then realizes he’s shouting “I’m being  _ irrational?”  _ He says, more quietly. “I’m the one who’s trying to do what we  _ said  _ we were going to do!”

“What we said we were going to do was find the Knights of Cybertron.” Minimus says. “This - Rodimus, you knew this could only be a short term attempt.”

“A -  _ what? _ ”

“You know this has been one of your more… emotional decisions.” Minimus says, which, well, Rodimus isn’t quite sure how you’d manage to _ rank _ them, but - it doesn’t change the fact that it stings. 

“You said - you agreed - you - you -” Rodimus says, and this is - this is just like half a million conversations they’ve had, except worse, because this  _ matters.  _ “You said Drift was your friend!” He shouts out. “You - you said you’d come with me.” He adds, his hands shaking.

“Rodimus.” Minimus says, in that voice that makes Rodimus feel so small, even though it’s coming from feet below him.

“What?” Rodimus says. “What are you going to say to make me give up?”

Minimus looks at him, so tired, and he’s not even trying to fight, he’s just there, as honest and direct as a steamroller. “I knew that you were going to do this, and - and that it was necessary for you to have my support, if you were to have any chance of accomplishing this, without -” Minimus trails off, hums slightly, and Rodimus reads ‘without getting yourself killed immediately, like an idiot’ in that hum.

“You -” Rodimus says, fists clenching at his sides, but he vents in, out. “That’s not good enough.”

\---

Drift stops, and lets his arm drop from where he’s been supporting himself against Ratchet. Ratchet moves another step before he realizes his own arm is being pulled backwards. Ratchet lets his arm drop too, as he turns around to look back at Drift.

“What?” Ratchet asks, “What’s wrong? We’ve got to keep going.” 

“You weren’t being sarcastic.” Drift says. “You - you said that it was  _ intuition -  _ you  _ just knew -  _ without it being a  _ punchline,  _ or a  _ joke.” _ Drift thinks of the way that Not-Rodimus had laughed, the sickening way his whole frame had melted into the wall. Moments that nagged at him are starting to click into place. “Who are you,” he starts, “and  _ what have you done with Ratchet _ ?”

Ratchet stares at him, then sighs. “Very funny, Drift.” Drift doesn’t move. “Listen,” Ratchet adds, “can I help it if your nonsense is rubbing off on me? I thought you’d be -”

_ happy _

The nightmare Ratchet had said that too. 

“This isn’t the setup for - for a  _ joke _ .” Drift says, his hands on his sword hilts. “I have had a.  _ Really. Long. Day. _ And I have already dealt with  _ one  _ fucking -  _ fake.  _ Tell me where Ratchet is.”

“Fuck, alright, I tried to lighten the mood, sorry, it was in poor taste, whatever, will you  _ stop freaking out so we can get out of here _ ?”

“No.”

Ratchet gives a snort of frustration. “Can we at least  _ talk  _ about this? For fuck’s sake, Drift, be  _ reasonable,  _ we need to  _ go - _ ”

“Really? You’re taking me out of here?” Drift says, “Or are you just leading me back down  _ there _ again? What are you  _ doing  _ to me that’s so urgent?”

“Yes,” Ratchet says, rolling his whole head back with the force of his sarcasm, “ _ you got me.  _ It’s  _ all  _ a trap, I’m not real - oh  _ come on,  _ Drift -”

“Shut up.” Drift says, because - because he sounds so much like Ratchet, that - he could be imagining it, he could be - 

“You  _ know  _ that  _ I’ _ d come back for you, Drift, I already -”

Ratchet tries to step towards him, “No. You stay there - until you tell me where Ratchet is.”

“Drift, I’m  _ right here. _ ” Ratchet says, stopping in his tracks and holding up his hands. “Listen - I - I know whatever happened to you is - is bad, and you’re - disoriented -”

“You know  _ exactly _ what happened to me.” Drift says, almost shaking, his hands still on his sword hilts steadying him, just a little.

“Please, Drift, listen, just - don’t do something you might regret, okay?” He says, watching Drift’s hands on the sword hilts. “Let’s just talk about this, alright? Please, just - I’m your amica, you can listen - ah.” He adds, when Drift’s optics flare, with realization and sudden, resolute fury.

\---

**Then**

“So,” Rodimus starts, turning his head and leaning slightly over from the medbay slab to look at Mag - Mini - fuck it, his First Officer - though Primus knew for how long, given - well. “What should I call you?”

His first officer looks down at his - what had he called it? - his ‘irreducible’ frame, and frowns under his mustache, tucking his arms across his chest, and it’s astonishing how different the gesture is than - than what Rodimus is used to. He’d expect his First Officer to look cross, prepared to lecture, but the way he’s more wrapping his arms around his chest, rather than crossing them, the way he’s fidgeting slightly with his feet, it’s like he’s trying to turn his whole body into an attention deflector.  _ Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me. I’m not here.  _

Rodimus looks across the medbay, where Ratchet is engrossed in his work, doing some patch jobs on remaining casualties from Luna 1, and check ups on those he’d treated after - 

Rodimus bites his lip, and deliberately keeps his head at an angle so that he can see his First Officer in his peripheral vision, but isn’t looking at him. 

“Minimus would seem… appropriate, in my current - state.”

“I think we’re well past appropriate.” Rodimus grins.

His First Officer doesn’t look at him. “I suppose you are used to calling me Ultra Magnus.”

Someday, someday, he’s going to get his First Officer to consider something from a standpoint that isn’t propriety or practicality.  _ Someday.  _

If they don’t throw him off the ship, that is. 

_ Focus,  _ says the voice in his head that sounds like Mag - sounds like his First Officer. 

“I mean, yeah,” Rodimus says, “Wasn’t what I meant. What d’you  _ want _ me - the crew - to call you?”

His First Officer looks - vaguely stricken.

“I mean,” Rodimus adds, regretting it as the words leave his mouth, “probably want to have that figured out when they make you Captain, right?”

His First Officer looks at him. There’s more of that regret. 

“Whatever.” Rodimus says, after a moment that feels like about three years. “We’ll figure it out.” 

“You’re angry with me.” His First Officer says, his voice flat. 

“What?” Rodimus says, “uh, pretty sure that’s the other way around.”

“I’m -” his First Officer starts, and then shakes his head. Rodimus finds himself bizarrely fascinated with the mustache. “About - Ultra Magnus. About this,” He says, with a slight nod of his head to indicate the irreducible frame. 

“I -” Rodimus looks at him, startled at the idea. “Okay, first off, ignoring the fact that on the scale of recent shocking revelations, yours is waaay way over there from ‘Tyrest loses it and tries to kill everyone’ and - well.” He nods at himself. He doesn’t know if someone is going to deliver a ballot to his potentially-soon-to-be-former First Officer in the medbay, or wait until he leaves. “No. Am I angry with you? No. I mean, wish I would have known you weren’t actually  _ dead,  _ because - and I mean, still a little ticked about the Tyrest thing, but - no. Okay, fine,” he adds, “maybe a little, liiiitle, tiny bit annoyed that you didn’t tell me, but like, I’ll get over it. I’ll get over all of it, it’s what I do.” He says, trying to grin, probably failing, there aren’t a lot of reflective surfaces in the medibay to check. “But - you know you could have told me, right? It wouldn’t have -”

His First Officer just looks at him, and well,  _ that’s  _ a no, and yeah, that stings. 

“... Alright, yeah.” Rodimus says. “I deserve that.” 

They sit in silence, Rodimus watching Ratchet work from across the room. 

“Why -” Rodimus starts. “Why’d you think I’d be mad at you?”

“I’ve been lying,” his First Officer says, looking down at his own knees, “about who I am. About - this.”

“I mean, okay,” Rodimus says, “but like, you said it yourself, we always knew you as Ultra Magnus. And the dates check out, you’re the only Ultra Magnus I’ve actually like, met-met. Suppose it might be weirder for folks who knew other Ultra Magnuses - Ultra Magnusi -”

“ _ Rodimus. _ ” 

“Is it Duly Appointed Enforcers of the Tyrest Accords, or Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrests Accords?” Rodimus muses. 

“It’s  _ obviously -”  _ his First Officer cuts himself off with a sigh.

“Anyway, seems to me that bit’s mostly Tyrest’s fault, and  _ that’s  _ dealt with - though like, the first guy, not the Ultra Magnus-Ultra Magnus, but the first guy who got the frame,  _ that _ seems like the weird decision. But you, you’re just the next guy to play Bond.”

“I’m the next -  _ what _ ?”

“We have  _ got  _ to get you to movie nights.” Rodimus says, “Consider it my last order as Captain.”

“ _ Rodimus.” _

“Well, no, actually, my last order is -” He stops abruptly. 

“Rodimus?” His First Officer says after a moment. 

“Nevermind.” He says, trying not to let his voice crack. “So like, did you have to do a study of Magnusi? Is this actually how you talk - like, how you like to talk - or did you have to practice in a mirror? What did they say when - ?”

“ _ Rodimus. _ ” His First Officer says, and Rodimus closes his mouth. “I,” he continues after a long, agonizing moment, “I did spend time with - at - I did spend time with recordings of - of the previous Ultra Magnus. Though, I - I believe I made the - the position my own, over time. Certainly by now.”

“Ah, yeah,” Rodimus says, “Makes sense. Was kinda hoping you were going to start, I don’t know, swearing and using contractions all of a sudden. I know you can use contractions,” He adds when his First Officer opens his mouth, “it’s a - nevermind.” He continues. “Nah, it’d be weird, I guess. I’m glad that you’re - you.”

“I’m -” his First Officer shakes his head. 

“ _ Rung  _ could tell you were you.” Rodimus says, and his First Officer hums. “I mean, it’s kinda weird that it’s a dead guy’s name, but like, all the best names  _ are  _ taken.”

His First Officer looks away, fidgeting slightly. Okay, not helping.

“Was it something you wanted?” Rodimus asks, more quietly.

His First Officer doesn’t answer for a moment, and Rodimus worries that he might have pushed too far. 

“Yes.” He says, eventually. “Or - I thought I did.”

“There you go, then.” Rodimus says. “Might as well say I’m lying ‘cause I don’t go by - y’know, my old name. ‘S not like this is my old frame, either. Good thing too, you should have seen the old mods.” He grins with fond memory, “I know,” He adds, as his First Officer looks ready to respond, “it’s not the same. But. It’s okay.”

“Why did you,” his First Officer starts, “change? Your -”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, “yeah. I - well, Optimus gave it to me, there, at the end, but - it’s hard to explain.” He rubs the back of his helm. “It’s like, it never quite sat right, y’know? And I think - I think the Matrix just - helped me understand that, about myself, and - and really get where I should go next, to - to get it right,” he says, with a slight shrug. “Sometimes - I don’t know. But once I got used to it, it was like it was - like it was fixing that part that hadn’t sat right. I’m Rodimus.” He says, and smiles. 

“I -” His First Officer starts. “I don’t know.” He concludes, finally, arms tight around himself, staring down at his knees like he wants to be swallowed up by the medbay berth.

“Okay,” Rodimus says, “when you do, let me know, it’d be nice to call you something other than First Officer, no matter what it is. Or Captain, maybe.”

His First Officer makes no indication that he’s heard Rodimus’s last three words. “And - if I never know?” He asks, quietly, so quietly that Rodimus almost doesn’t hear him, so quietly that Rodimus doesn’t have to respond. 

“Then we’ll take it one day at a time,” Rodimus says, “Okay?”

He nods, just barely an inclination of his head, and Rodimus smiles. 

“Hey, I bet Ratchet’s probably done patching up the first set of your -” Rodimus waves a hand; he feels odd just calling it ‘armor’. “Want me to go bug him about it?”

His First Officer’s head snaps up, and Rodimus doesn’t miss the way his optics brighten. “I -” he starts, and then catches himself, “it would not be appropriate to disturb the Chief Medical Officer while he has other tasks,”

“I’m gonna go bug him.” Rodimus says, standing up from the slab - he’s fine, really, totally steady on his feet. “Be right back.”

Maybe his First Officer thinks that the mustache hides his smile, but Rodimus doesn’t miss it.

\---

**Now**

“It’s not  _ ‘good enough’. _ ” Minimus says, staring flatly at Rodimus, and there’s something bitter coiled in his almost-toneless voice. “Of course it isn’t. When have you ever listened to  _ reason? _ ”

“Minimus -”

“No! Of course not!” Minimus snaps, “Why  _ shouldn’t  _ we endanger more of the crew to fulfill another of Rodimus’s flights of fancy -”

“ _ Flight of -  _ **_fancy?_ ** ” Rodimus splutters. “I’m trying to rescue -”

“ _ You failed the crew! _ ” 

Minimus could have hit him with a Magnus sized fist. 

“You’re the one who - you’re the reason I’m not  _ with  _ the crew, you -”

Minimus shakes his head violently. “That’s not - you’ve done this  _ before,  _ you endanger the crew because you don’t think, you just  _ do -”  _ he spits out, the bitterness in his voice almost caustic. “How many more people have to die before you learn how to  _ listen.  _ Does your crew have to die down here before you give up this foolishness?”

_ \- Drift, turning grey -  _

“No one’s going to die.” Rodimus says, through clenched teeth.

“Pff,” Minimus snorts skeptically. “You said that when you started this quest. How many did you lose that day?”

“I -” Rodimus starts, and he can hear his own voice shake.

Minimus steps forward, purposeful, methodical, like a predator that’s scented blood, and somehow he seems  _ taller.  _ “I thought you would listen to Optimus’s wisdom, if you would not listen to mine.” He says, “You know - you knew he was right, and you still couldn’t focus on the larger mission -”

“I came back for  _ Drift! _ You -”

“And for the life of me, I don’t understand  _ why _ . It’s not like you cared enough to go back for him the  _ last  _ time you abandoned him.” 

\---

**Then**

Drift looks up as Ratchet steps through the door of the cockpit, a few minutes early for his shift at the shuttle controls. 

“Got a few updates to the star charts,” Ratchet says, “nothing that’s in our way, but we’re going to be seeing a supernova the next sector over in a bit.”

“Anything we need to worry about?”

“Not really,” he checks the pad quickly, “it’s four-hundred forty-seven light years away, more than safe distance for the shuttle’s shielding, we won’t even feel it. It’ll keep getting brighter for a few weeks though, I can adjust the polarization on the windows if it makes it hard to fly.”

“That’s good,” Drift says. “How soon is ‘a bit’?”

He checks the pad again, “Seven minutes.”

“Mind if I stay and watch?” 

Ratchet shrugs. “Sure.” He reaches up and stretches before sitting down in the chair next to Drift. “It’s easier to manage one of these things with a second person, I’ll say,” he comments absently.

“It must have been hard,” Drift says, looking out the window, “finding your way out here on your own.”

“You’ve been piloting one of these alone longer than I was,” Ratchet says, “anyone gets to say how hard it is, you do.” He still sounds angry on Drift’s behalf, but he doesn’t press it. 

“Still,” Drift says, “it must have been hard, coming out here alone.” 

Ratchet looks at him sharply, he can see it on the periphery of his optics even though he’s still determinately staring out the window, and he can tell he hasn’t kept the question out of his voice. 

“Only hard thing was trying to understand why I hadn’t done it sooner.” Ratchet says gruffly. Drift’s gaze, without him really realizing, drifts away from the window towards Ratchet. Ratchet’s expression softens. “It was the right thing to do,” he says, “besides, you’re my - patient.” He coughs. “And First Aid’s been ready for a long time.”

Drift tucks his chin in towards his chest, looks at the floor. 

After a few moments, Ratchet says, “When I realized - after you - when I realized what you had been collecting medical supplies for,” he shakes his head angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Drift starts, “I lied to you, I -” he studies the floor intently, feeling like his internals are twisting into knots, “Rodimus - told me to take whatever I’d need, and I - I couldn’t tell y-”

Ratchet snorts. “Well, you  _ were  _ making sure the shuttles were better prepared for medical emergencies.” Ratchet is sardonic, and Drift tenses even though it’s not directed at him. “The  _ shuttle _ , that is.”

Drift keeps looking at the floor. He doesn’t like thinking about the look on Rodimus’s face, when Drift had said that he should leave the ship. When, finally, Rodimus had sat down, defeated, behind his desk, and asked if Drift could make the arrangements himself, his voice dead, and Drift couldn’t be anything but grateful to have that task alone, because it meant he could leave the office, it meant he didn’t have to watch Rodimus’s face like that for one moment longer. 

“I’m sorry,” Ratchet says, and Drift realizes with sudden horror that his distress must be painted across his face. “I didn’t - I’m sorry.”

Drift shakes his head slightly. “‘s fine.”

Ratchet looks like he’s about to say something, then closes his mouth. He frowns, rubs the back of his neck. 

After a few moments, Ratchet does speak, “Before all this, do you remember - after you - you all climbed out of Vector Sigma,”

Drift remembers. “You were fixing me up,” He says. He’d been in a daze at the time, still processing what had happened, what he had seen, but he does remember; remembers Ratchet’s hands, remembers the way Ratchet’s shoulders had almost tucked up around his helm with worry when he’d asked about Optimus.

Ratchet snorts. “After you put your own sword  _ through your own spark. _ Should have damn well killed you.”

“But it didn’t.” Drift says, and finally smiles a little, teasing.

“Luck. You couldn’t possibly have known  _ that  _ sword would act as a - conductor of your spark energy, or whatever the hell it does.” He says, “couldn’t have done something  _ non-fatal,  _ couldn’t have cut your own legs off, I’ve reattached those …” he trails off, staring blankly out the window for several long moments, then resets his optics frantically, “... enough.”

Drift stares out the window too, doesn’t say anything. 

“Could hardly get my work done,” Ratchet says, looking over at Drift, “kids beating down the door to see you. Well, and Kup.”

“So  _ Kup’s  _ not a ‘kid’.” Drift says, grinning.

“You wanna try calling him a kid, you be my guest. Take Rewind with you.” 

Drift laughs at the thought. “Next time I see him.”

He remembers when Rodimus had made it to the medibay berth, with Perceptor and Kup, how he’d stared up at Rodimus’s red and gold helm, superimposed the image from his vision over it.

Rodimus had laughed and hugged him so tight Ratchet had yelled at him. 

He -

There’s a beep from Ratchet’s pad. “Thirty seconds,” Ratchet sits upright, looking out the window. 

“Where should I look?”

Ratchet points out the window, “There, that star, to the left of the cluster, no, no,” He gets up, moving to stand next to Drift, so he can more clearly point out what he’s looking at.

“That - oh,”

Drift doesn’t need to finish his question, the star in question is getting brighter, flaring up. Drift resets his optics for a moment. When he looks back, it’s still there, even brighter, almost as bright as Luna 2 on a clear night. 

Ratchet’s staring out the window at it, entirely captivated. 

“What happens now?” Drift asks.

“ _ Now _ ? We’d have to wait another four-hundred and forty-seven years to see.” Ratchet chuckles. “Look across space far enough, and it’s practically it’s own time machine.”

Four-hundred and forty-seven years ago, he’d been Deadlock. 

“But,” Ratchet adds, “what we’re seeing now? The shockwave from the star’s collapse reached the surface, and,” he looks over at Drift, “it’s made - oh, silver, gold, platinum, all of that. Anything heavier than iron, if I remember right.”

“Heavier than iron?”

“Iron’s the thing that’s too big to fuse in the star’s core, so it can’t keep going on like that.” Ratchet says, “If you want to make anything bigger, well - it takes an explosion. Like that,” he says, pointing out the window again, and then turns back to Drift. “You’ve got platinum in your engine, so do I,” he nods towards the window, “it all came from something like that.”

Drift thinks it sounds - nice. Coming from the same place. He looks up at Ratchet, and smiles, and Ratchet smiles back. 

“It’ll keep getting brighter tomorrow,” Ratchet says, “you should get some rest.”

Drift nods, and gets up, and Ratchet sits back down.

“Drift?” Ratchet calls to him just before he gets to the door. He stops, looks back at Ratchet. “I -” he starts, shakes his head. “It’ll be okay.” He says finally.

_ If you want to make anything bigger, well - it takes an explosion _

Drift hopes that’s true. 

\---

**Now**

“Well, I rather stepped in that one,” Not-Ratchet says, still watching Drift’s face.

“Ratchet’s not my amica.” Drift hates saying it, his hands are so tight on the hilts of his swords he’s losing feeling in the tips of his fingers. “Not - not properly.” He says, and he’s not quite sure why the words are tumbling out, but he’s so angry, and not just at the fake. “I I never - I haven’t asked him. He never asked me.” He adds more quietly, then angles his sword just slightly upward. “The real Ratchet would  _ never  _ say that. Not -” He stops, takes a breath. “ _ Who are you _ ?”

“Someone much wiser than you.” Not-Ratchet says, not sounding at all like Ratchet now. “Or him,” he says, sneering down at the false frame he wears.

“You’re the one who made the mistake,” Drift snarls, “pretending to be him.”

“You do make it difficult, when you _ think  _ of each other the same way.” He says bitterly, and Drift’s spark flares, just for a second. 

_ the same way! _

“‘ _ Amica Endura, _ ’” he adds with a contemptuous twist to his mouth, and Drift is reminded of the way the nightmare Ratchet had talked about elective kinship. “What a thing to get hung up on.”

“Tell me where Ratchet is.”

“Where Ratchet - do you  _ really  _ think you are going to leave here? You think you are going to find your friends?” He says, and snorts. “What do you do now,  _ Drift? _ You know you can’t get out of this on your own. And you are alone.”

The darkness of the tunnel seems to be pressing in on him. 

_ Alone - _

“Listen to me,” Not-Ratchet says, and there is weariness to his voice. “Follow me. There is no reason to make this more difficult than it has to be. This will happen. You do not need to fight a hopeless battle.”

Drift stares at him, his hands still on his swords.

“You must understand that this is wisdom. Would your friend ask you to suffer needlessly?”

“No,” Drift says, “No, you don’t know Ratchet at all. Ratchet -” He says, gaining confidence as he spoke “he’d fight a thousand hopeless battles before noon if he thought he was on the right side. He’d never tell me to give up. And,” he adds, “he’d - he’d never act like I should just  _ expect  _ to be abandoned, like - like I’m  _ worthless. _ You’re not Ratchet. Ratchet’s worth a hundred of you. And you’re not  _ wise.  _ You just want me to give up,” he continues, “because that’s  _ easier  _ for you,” He turns around, puts his swords back in their sheathes, and starts walking. “I’m done listening.”

“Where are you going to go?” Not-Ratchet spits after him.

“Home.”

\---

Rodimus almost falls to his knees; he’s taken gunshots that hurt less. 

He stays on his feet, barely, as Minimus continues. “What’s  _ changed _ ? Now, you’re willing to go back - now you’re willing to endanger the crew,  _ turn your back on them _ ?”

“No.” Rodimus exhales, so quiet he doesn’t know if Minimus can hear it. 

“The crew needs you, Rodimus. You need to go back.” Minimus says, more gently, and it sounds like wisdom. 

Rodimus breathes, clenching and unclenching his fists. “...Okay.”

Minimus steps back, his face suddenly shadowed; Rodimus can’t see his expression. 

“I’ll go back with you - I’ll help - I’ll help whoever needs it, and - and we can coordinate who needs to get out and - and reassess whether - whether anyone can come back.” He says, his voice drained of emotion. 

Minimus nods, and turns away.

Rodimus follows, his feet leaden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now officially the longest thing I've got published on AO3, and we've still got a ways to go. I'm very excited about the next two chapters in particular... :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: After getting away from the fake Rodimus, an exhausted, underfueled Drift collapses on a fake Ratchet, so, things aren’t exactly ‘looking up.’ After claiming that the rest of the crew went on without Drift, the fake Ratchet ends up giving himself away by a) forgetting that the real Ratchet is a skeptic with no patience for nonsense b) panicking after his first mistake and forgetting that Drift and Ratchet aren’t formally amicas (yet). Leaving behind the doppelganger, Drift resumes his journey out from the tunnels.
> 
> As Rodimus returned to looking for Drift, he was called back by someone claiming to be Minimus, who said that some of the crew had been injured, and they needed to call off the search for Drift and rejoin Optimus. After an argument, Rodimus agrees to go back and help the crew before reconsidering the search for Drift.
> 
> Flashbacks included: The Trans Subtext Is Intentional, Ratchet is grumpy Carl Sagan
> 
> Chapter songs: Coming Back - Dean Ray, White Cedar - The Mountain Goats, Personal Jesus - Depeche Mode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, the most important announcement: HAPPY BIRTHDAY CEE!!!
> 
> Other things: I'm really excited to share this chapter with you, there's scenes in here where their first drafts were written nearly a year ago. That said, there's scenes in here where certain threads were deeply uncomfortable to write. I know the fic's already tagged for emotional manipulation, and I usually say to keep that in mind, but I want to emphasize that for this chapter. More details in the end notes. 
> 
> Two last things: a) This chapter's ~10k, so maybe grab a snack or five? b) TRUST NO ONE.

Drift walks forward.

He watches the walls with suspicion; he doesn’t turn around to see where - where Not-Ratchet must have melted into another black stain on the floor.

He can’t trust anything, not until he’s out of here.

He just has to keep moving.

When red and gold appears around a corner, he draws his swords, holds them up so that his arms cover the wound in his chest.

“You’re not real.” He says, the moment Rodimus - Not-Rodimus, he can’t trust this - comes into view.

“Oh thank Primus,” Rodimus - Not-Rodimus, _Not-Rodimus_ says, a wide smile on his face at the sight of Drift, some of the vigilant tension - tension Drift knows is mirrored in his own frame - dropping out of his shoulders. “It’s _you_ . I’ve been getting the fakes, too.” He shakes his head. “They _really_ didn’t want me to find you.” He looks at Drift, who still hasn’t lowered his swords, and his smile softens from a megawatt glow to something gentler. “I’m real,” he says, taking a step closer to Drift, a hand outstretched. “I swear, Drift, it’s okay.”

Drift forces himself to hold his hands steady. “Don’t come any closer.”

\---

“How much further?”

Minimus sighs, “We’re very close to the crew. We’ll be out of here soon.”

“We haven’t decided that.” Rodimus mutters, low, without any heat.

“We’ll be able to rejoin Optimus once we reach the surface,” Minimus says, and at the name ‘Optimus’ Rodimus winces.  He doesn’t want to think about Optimus’s face if he crawls back with his head down.

If he has to admit Optimus was right.

_No._

Rodimus doesn’t say anything. It hurts to even think of activating his voicebox.

Minimus looks at him. “He will understand, you know. I understand. It is easy to react emotionally; but now you understand that he was right.” He says, “You said it yourself, we set out to find the Knights of Cybertron,”

 _‘This is why you came out here.’_ He remembers Drift’s voice saying.

But that wasn’t really Drift.

He thinks back to standing on that platform, back on Cybertron, Magnus and Drift standing behind him, delivering Drift’s words to the waiting crowd, to the listening planet.

Thinks of standing in front of Drift, asking him if he was sure about the Matrix being a map, looked at the certainty, the absolute belief in his optics -

‘ _Someone else_ **_doesn’t_ ** _take over -_ ’

Thinks of sitting across from Drift, their first time on the new Lost Light, conversation coming and going as Drift had tapped on a datapad, crafting words that would become Rodimus’s; the datapad eventually abandoned to talk about the Knights, about what they might find, out in the galaxy, about what it would mean for Cybertron, for their people; talking until they’d both fallen asleep at the desk.

“Everything will be right once we reach the Knights.” Minimus says. “That is what’s most important.”

_‘Rodimus - you have to find the Knights, you can’t let me stop you,’_

Not real. Not Drift.

He thinks about the way Drift had smiled, the first time Rodimus had read his words, smiled at the way Rodimus’s optics had brightened, the way he had exclaimed and punched the air once he reached the end of Drift’s writing.

Finally, he is able to speak with a clear voice.

“No.”

\---

Not-Rodimus stops, takes a step back. “Okay, Drift,” he says, and he smiles patiently.

It’s not at all like the fake Ratchet, who had been immediately impatient with his doubts. It’s -

No. He holds his swords steady.

“You -” he tries to think. Part of him wants to just turn and run, and hope that the fake Rodimus will melt away instead of chase him. But - “Tell me something only Rodimus would know.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me where you - where Rodimus is from.”

“Nyon.” Not-Rodimus says. “I’m from Nyon.”

That’s too easy. Rodimus has introduced himself as Rodimus of Nyon - many times. Too easy.

Something he’s told hardly anyone. And -

‘ _You think of each other the same way,’_

If - if that had been the truth, they had been able to - to pull some things from their minds.

It had been at least partially the truth. What they had read from Drift - that had been the truth.

But they hadn’t read deeply enough to be a perfect fake. Somewhere, there’s something that will make this fake Rodimus slip.

Something he doesn’t talk about. Something, Drift is sure, he’s tried not to think about, not since he told Drift.

“What happened to Nyon?”

“Drift -” Rodimus looks stricken.

Not-Rodimus. Drift reminds himself. “Do you know or don’t you?”

“I burned it to the ground.” Rodimus says, looking at Drift, and Drift remembers that dark room, the quarters they had shared, remembers the look in Rodimus’s optics. “You know.”

_Rodimus._

“It’s really you.” He says, and Rodimus sighs with relief, relief that’s mirrored in every strut of Drift’s frame. And Drift - Drift laughs, the sound escaping him before he properly realizes it. “ _You came back._ ”

\---

“ _What?_ ”

“I said no.” Rodimus says, his voice gaining some energy in the repetition, still low. “I meant what I said, at the circle. The Knights aren’t what’s important, the crew is. You, Drift -”

“Did you listen to _nothing_ of what Optimus said?”

“Optimus was wrong.” He lets out a huff that doesn’t quite make it to being a laugh. “On - on this one, Optimus got it wrong,” he says. “I’m not going to leave without Drift, any more than I’d leave without _you._ ”

And for a flash of a moment, Minimus’s face twists in utter disgust. Once he steadies his expression, he asks, “You think finding the Knights is so unimportant?”

“I think you’re more important. I think Drift’s more important. And, well,” he adds, with a little half-smile, “The crew - the - the extended Rodsquad, they seemed to agree. The Rodsquad were well up for it.” He says, expecting Minimus to correct him, say it was supposed to be ‘was’ or ‘wheretofor’ or something.

Minimus doesn’t correct him.

“This _is_ important. It is worth it.” Rodimus continues, “I want to make sure everyone’s safe, but - no, then I _am_ going back for Drift.”

\---

Drift takes a step towards Rodimus - _Rodimus, really Rodimus, he came back -_ and then another, and then another, and then Rodimus mirrors him, holding out an arm as Drift draws close, and Drift leans into it gratefully, so relieved he doesn’t even think to cover the wound over his spark, the cut that runs between the eyes of his Autobot badge.

The relief, the feeling of Rodimus’s arm around him, drains him of fear, and with it goes the nervous energy that has been letting him run on fumes. He stumbles slightly, leans heavily into Rodimus’s side.

“Come on -” Rodimus says, helping Drift along, “we need to get out of here, I’ve already run into trouble a couple of times.”

“The doubles,”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, with a frown, “and guards, too - they patrol in groups.”

“The spiky ones,” Drift says, “and - the big ones, with the tails.”

“Yeah,” Rodimus says, “Those guys. You’ve seen them too?”

“In - in the chamber where I woke up.”

“Huh.” Rodimus grins. “You had them handled, though,” he pats the side of Drift’s helm, “huh, Drift?”

“You know it,” Drift says, feeling a little swagger come back.

“Guess you’ve missed the patrols, though,” Rodimus says. “No need to wait for your luck to run out, though,” he adds, “let’s move quickly, alright?

Drift thinks about the fake Rodimus and the fake Ratchet, and doesn’t feel particularly lucky.

Rodimus leans them towards the right hand path, and Drift feels his internals twist. “No, that will loop us back, we need to go left.”

Rodimus stops for a moment, looks back and forth. “Oh, you’re right,” he says, easily. “Good thing I’ve got you here, right?” he says, walking to the left.

“Of course,” Drift says, smiling, even as his wheels drag on the floor, and low fuel warnings he’s disabled popping back up again, more urgently.

“C’mon,” Rodimus adds, “Got to keep moving.”

“Rodimus,” he asks, “I’m low on fuel, I can’t go any faster - can I have some energon?”

Rodimus looks sympathetic, but - “It’s not far, you can make it.”

Drift laughs, a little hollow. Rodimus should know well enough to know that Drift understands his fuel limits as well as Rodimus does his own. “ _Really_ , Rodimus,”

“Sorry, Drift,” Rodimus says with a chagrined smile, “I didn’t stock up - I was kind of in a rush.” He tightens his arm around Drift, “I was worried about you.”

Drift stops dead.

\---

“And _what?_ ” Minimus asks. “You’ll race in circles around these tunnels, chasing after someone who is probably _dead_ ? What will be good enough for you? When will you _stop_?”

_good enough for you_

Something about that _nags_ at him, but he can’t place it just yet, not with the energon running cold through his systems. “Drift _isn’t dead._ ”

“How?” Minimus says, stopping and turning to face him. “Tell me, Rodimus, how can you _possibly_ know that?”

“I just - he’s _not dead._ ”

“You don’t know that! You can’t possibly know that unless you find him, and you - you could keep searching until you _starve_ because you think you know _._ Listen to reason, Rodimus -”

“You’re telling me you - you came _with_ me, when you believed he was _-_  when you thought we wouldn’t find him?” Rodimus’s vocalizer can barely keep up with his disbelief. “You’re - you’re telling me you came back down here, you abandoned your - your armors - just to - “

Minimus looks startled, almost angry. “You are the _Captain_ , I _had_ to come back down here. My true form was the only one that would fit, I told you that.”

“But - you could have sent Rewind, or someone else, or waited until they’d cleared the way a little more, you know I’d -”

_My true form_

It keeps _nagging_ at him.

“This is who I am, Rodimus,” he says, clearly frustrated, “I don’t know why you act like - “

“That doesn’t - ” he starts, “we _talked_ about this, you know I would never expect you to -”

Minimus looks blank for a moment.

Something cold slides through his pipework, into his engine.

_What if this isn’t Minimus?_

\---

**_Then_ **

Drift hears Rodimus laughing before he even enters the medibay.

The first thing he sees is Rodimus waving at him from one of the berths, Ratchet standing next to him, frowning, what looks like the contents of Rodimus’s subspace emptied out onto a tray beside the berth.

Ratchet looks up at Drift and then down at the pad in his hands, “Oh. It’s you. I was expecting Ultra Magnus. Well,” he adds grudgingly, “grab a seat, I’m still not done with the _Captain_ ,” he shakes his head.

“Remind me again why this is ‘necessary’?” Rodimus asks Ratchet, kicking his feet back and forth and grinning at Drift. “I know you have better things to do than -”

“Catalogue your old racing injuries? Actually, yes,” Ratchet says, “but it’s standard procedure; all crew gets full physicals before departure, that way we have a baseline for any changes.”

“Hey, they’re not _all_ racing injuries.”

“For someone who’s so damn squirrelly about energon,” he says, tilting his head towards the tray of Rodimus’s empty subspace, featuring several cubes of energon, along with mementos and various scraps of metal that Rodimus has found and saved for future use - much like the contents of Drift’s subspace, but with fewer knives,  “you waste an awful lot of it running in circles.”

“Eh, what would you know,” Rodimus teases, “you’re an old clunker, what can you get, 40, 45?” he kicks out a foot in Ratchet’s direction, which Ratchet resoundingly ignores. “‘Sides, you need energon to live, but you need things to live _for._ Excitement! Speed!” He grins, “Drift gets it, right Drift?”

Drift, of course, gets more than what Rodimus is saying aloud, and as Rodimus looks at him, his optics soften at Drift’s understanding. Drift sees dark, hungry city streets reflected back at him, and knows full well that the energon in Rodimus’s subspace translates to two full days, rationed the way they both know, or not even a day’s worth, by doctor’s recommendation. He knows that having that energon out of his subspace, where someone could take it, was part of what was making Rodimus so twitchy, because it would make _him_ twitchy. And he knows, because he knows what Rodimus has told him of Nyon, that racing wasn’t just something Rodimus loved, it was the best way for a racing frame to _get_ energon in the first place.

You did what you had to, to get energon.

Some days he’s amazed that Rodimus still likes racing, still likes going out with Drift in whatever open space they can find, chasing him at full throttle. Amazed, but grateful.

“Of course,” is all Drift says, with a returning grin. Ratchet rolls his eyes.

Drift has no idea if Ratchet remembers where he came from, where they met. He’s terrified to ask, though he’s not sure which possible answer it is that scares him.

“Well, as your doctor, it’s my duty to remind you that your subspace is _not_ , technically, infinitely malleable. If you’re going to keep carrying this amount of stuff around, you should keep an eye out for -”

“Hey, storing your own energon is useful. _You_ even recommended it, after I -”

“ _Was_ useful.” Ratchet says, “it’s a good wartime preparedness habit, among - other things, but - we’re not at war anymore,” he continues, a little more softly. “The ship _is_ sufficiently provisioned for everyone. I checked.”

“It’s almost like you don’t think I could handle it,”

“ _I_ know what _you_ think are sufficient fuelling habits, and I wouldn’t be a decent CMO if I let you inflict them on the rest of the crew.”

“Hey, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Ratchet snorts. “Well. Apart from the subspace issue - at least this is a new frame, you haven’t had that much time to ding up the exteriors, though I don’t know how you’ve managed to go without getting some of these underlying injuries dealt with properly -”

“Which ones?” Rodimus leans over the pad Ratchet’s holding, presumably with some kind of scan Drift can’t see. “Oh, well, I can tell you _that_ one’s before the Autobots. Almost died that time!”

“Of _course_.” Ratchet grumbles.

“At least this isn’t my _old_ old frame,” Rodimus says with a grin, “you would have hated that one,”

“Don’t even tell me,”

“Absolutely covered with mods - you would have hated the guy I got mods from, too - fuel efficiency, speed, the occasional weapon, more fuel efficiency -”

Ratchet groans, “It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

“Well, I am pretty wonderful.”

Drift laughs. Ratchet looks very deliberately unimpressed, before looking back down at his pad. “That’s it. If you experience any discomfort with your subspace -” he says, as Rodimus immediately starts piling his stuff back in, “let me know immediately, before it becomes an issue I can’t treat. The same if any of these underlying injuries become an issue - I’m transmitting a copy of this file to you, it’s basically a picture of you, so you should _actually_ look at it.” Drift almost laughs at that before he catches himself. “And - well, I’d say if, but it’s more like _when_ \- when you get injured,”

“Call you?”

“There you go.” Ratchet says, “Now, scoot, I have another patient.”

“That’s it?”

“What, you want an energon goodie?”

“Are you going to yell at me if I say yes?” Rodimus says, with a teasing grin

Ratchet throws an energon goodie at his head; Rodimus laughs and catches it unerringly, then looks at it. “Hey, Drift, it’s your favorite,” he says, before tossing the blue treat to Drift, “all yours.”

Drift catches it and puts it in his mouth before anyone can say anything.

Ratchet sighs. “Now,” he says, “exactly how many knives am I going to have to deal with here,”

Drift looks at Rodimus, Rodimus shoots him a commiserating look. “Doctor’s orders. But hey,” He adds, apparently catching some of the discomfort in Drift’s expression, “since you’re stuck here, you want to go over the crew manifest with me, before Magnus tells us about every bot on it who once wore their badge crooked?”

Drift looks at Ratchet, who just sighs. “If you get in the way of my examination I’m kicking you out of here.”

Rodimus holds up his hands. “No interference. None whatsoever.” He turns to look at Drift. “You want to start at the beginning?”

\---

_**Now** _

“Drift?”

Rodimus - Not-Rodimus - is looking back at him, hand trailing behind him, still holding on to Drift’s side.

“Drift, what’s wrong?”

“ _You don’t have energon._ ”

“Yeah…?” He tilts his head, confused. “Really, Drift, you’ll be fine, it’s not far, we can get out of here -”

“You always carry energon.”

The flash of panic is easier to recognize now, a third time, before it’s hidden. “It took a while to find you, between the doubles and the guards. I just - I ran through my normal supply, that’s all.”

“No,” Drift says, “No. How we grew up? Rodimus is smarter than that. He’d ration -”

“Drift, _we have to get out of here._ ” As he says it, there’s a faint rumbling from down the hall, like the sounds of marching feet.

“Who are you?” Drift asks. “ _How did you know about Nyon?_ ”

“Drift, please, I promise it’s okay - we just - we need to run, _now.”_

“What have you done with Rodimus?”

“I _am_ Rodimus - can we _please_ have this discussion when there aren’t _guards_ bearing down on us?”

“What? You don’t think we’ll have them _handled_?”

“Drift - you’re -”

“C’mon, your flame in this tunnel, you’re not a little excited?”

“Not when - Drift, don’t be stupid, come _on!_ ”

The sounds are growing louder, and louder. Drift pulls his greatsword, looking down the tunnel while focusing all of his other sensory systems on Not-Rodimus.

It sounds as though there are dozens of guards around the corner, and something quivers with doubt in Drift’s internals.

Nothing appears.

“Well, it was worth a try.” Not-Rodimus says, and the sound cuts out completely. “What are you going to do now, Drift?”

He turns and points his sword at not-Rodimus, who holds up his hands.

“You don’t have to fight, you know. I’m not going to hurt you. I know you don’t want to use that,” not-Rodimus says, “not after how you shook when you pulled it on - well, when you saw this face before. Put the sword down, Drift,”

Drift keeps his grip on his sword.

Not-Rodimus sighs. “We only want what’s best for you. All of you. Come with me, and I’ll take you where you’re meant to be.”

“What’s _best_ for me?” Drift spits out. “What’s best for - you _kidnapped_ me. You - you cut my _spark,_ and tried to _kill_ me,”

“We brought you here for a purpose, Drift. We never wanted to kill you, why would we do that?”

Drift laughs. “And I’m supposed to believe _that_ after you - you _lied_ to me, you - you gave me the _nightmare_ \- you took R-”

“We tried to make you comfortable. Failing that,” He says, with a ‘what can you do’? smirk and a shrug that looks _so much_ like Rodimus that it hurts. “We thought friendly faces would be … better received.”

“Yes, they were _so_ friendly when they were _cursing at me._ ”

Not-Rodimus hums. “You’ll have to forgive them. They can’t help the nature of their true faces when they’re - frustrated.”

“I don’t have to forgive _anything.”_ He says, and it feels good to hear the words. “They used my friend’s faces. _You_ used their faces. You _stole_ their - their - you knew about _Nyon -_ about - ” Drift _snarls._ “That was supposed to make me _trust_ you?”

“We did not steal anything from your friends,” Not-Rodimus says. “We only looked, to understand. As you can tell, we were not entirely successful in creating a perfect replica, but - we wanted to understand,” not-Rodimus says, “all of you, who finally made it here, and _especially_ you.”

“How _dare you!_?”

“Drift,” not-Rodimus says, with a soft smile. “Don’t you want to know what you’re _meant_ for?”

\---

As soon as the thought _what if this isn’t Minimus_ hits his processor, he wishes he could un-think it.

At the same time -

“You said that - you thought I would listen to Optimus’s ‘wisdom’.”

“What?”

It would make things slot into place.

“You said you thought I would listen to him. So what did Optimus say? What did you think I would listen to?”

“He said -” Minimus - or not-Minimus - shakes his head slightly, clearly frustrated. “He said that it was irresponsible to risk the mission for one person. He said that he had to consider that it was probable that Drift was dead, and that you shouldn’t risk your life.”

“Well,” Rodimus says, “that _is_ what he said. One problem. _You weren’t there._ ”

 _There._ That’s shock. Not-Minimus hadn’t expected that.

He resets his vocalizer, recovers. “Of course I wasn’t. Optimus told me afterwards. We discussed it when - when I decided that I would go with you, to make sure you didn’t - “

“Uh-huh,” Rodimus cuts in, trying to cover up the sliver of doubt that says, well, maybe Magnus _would_ have gone behind your back, maybe he would think you’re incapable. He tries to keep the anger out of his voice, tries to keep himself steady. “And when we talked - before we found the last entryway - before the doors started closing. What did _I_ say?”

Not-Minimus freezes. Rodimus can see his lips move slightly, like he’s cursing under his breath, or like he’s mentally replaying the last few minutes of the conversation. “You said you would never expect me to - to use my irreducible form to help the mission.” He says. “You were being ridiculous.”

Rodimus snorts. “I’m always ridiculous. I even said Tailgate could carry your Magnus helmet down the tunnel if it came to that.”

Not-Minimus seems to relax for a moment. “Yes. Yes you did. It was absurd.”

“ _No I didn’t._ ” Rodimus says, stepping forward. “I said Swerve could try and carry it, and I know you remember because you said ‘ _something something no circumstances will he be allowed to try,’”_ he says, in his best imitation of Magnus, “and because you have a memory like an elephant -”

“Will you _stop_ obsessing over trivialities, we need to -”

“Okay, something serious. Section 42-47 of the Autobot code, what does it say?”

Minimus stares at him for a solid ten seconds. Then “You don’t even - you don’t know that, you wouldn’t be able to tell if -”

“It took you more than five seconds to answer, so - _wrong._ Major faults with the sprinkler system on board the Lost Light?”

“I -” Not-Minimus shakes his head. “Do - you - you really care so little about - “

“Trick question, there aren’t any, Magnus redesigned it from the ground up, it’s perfect. Best Earth music album of this year?”

Not-Minimus _snarls_ with frustration.

Rodimus steps forward again, looms over him.

Not-Minimus barely pays attention to him, muttering to himself. “I thought he was too arrogant, thinking this would be _easy,_ he’s _always_ prone to laughing before he’s even _won_ . Patience, and wisdom, and sense, I thought, but _no!”_ And now Minimus spits up into Rodimus’s face, “ _you - are just -_ **_impossible!_ ** ”

 **Not** Minimus, he reminds himself, fists clenched.

“Ridiculous - and - absurd - and - _foolish -_ ” Not-Minimus shakes his head, letting out a bitter snort. “I hope you’re happy. I hope one of _them_ has better luck with you.”

“You were _watching_ us on the surface.” Rodimus says.

“ _Watching_ you? You think we were just _watching_ you? You have no idea what we are - you have no idea what this planet -” He closes his mouth quickly

“What are you, then?”

“Only a fool would ask such a boldfaced question.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Rodimus says, fuel running hot in his systems, lifting his guns and levelling them at Not-Minimus’s face. “I’ll ask another one, then. _Where is Minimus?_ ”

\---

“What I’m _meant_ for?”

“I told you we brought you here for a reason, Drift.” Not-Rodimus says, “This - what we are going to do here - is your purpose.”

“My - what?” Drift snorts, then starts - he almost sounds like Ratchet. “Being kidnapped, stabbed in the spark, and - and lied to, that’s what I’m meant for? Great.”

There’s a flash of - something, in Not-Rodimus’s optics, before he smiles, amused. “You make it sound so violent. It -” He stops. “Excuse me.”

Not-Rodimus freezes completely. Drift doesn’t let go of his sword, but after a few moments, he steps forward, waves a hand in front of Not-Rodimus’s face. No reaction.

He could run.

He doesn’t.

Not-Rodimus coughs suddenly. “There. That’s cleared up.” He says. “Apologies. We weren’t planning on telling you all of this. My - well, some of the others thought it would be - unduly distressing for you.”

“Telling me _what_?”

Not-Rodimus lowers his head slightly, laughs. “Walk with me. This will be - rather a long conversation.”

Drift stays where he is, his hand still on his sword.

“Oh, Drift,” Not-Rodimus says, so gently, so mournfully, that it shifts Drift dangerously towards sympathy. “Bravehearted Drift. You’ve tried so hard to serve.” He reaches out towards Drift, and Drift steps back. Not-Rodimus tilts his head slightly, with a sad smile, but doesn’t drop his hand. “You know there’s still something missing, don’t you? You still feel guilt. You don’t have to.”

Drift just stares at him.

“You’ve done so much, Drift. You have so much faith to give,” Not-Rodimus says, “lend me some of that faith for a moment, and I promise everything will become clear. I would not ask so much of you,” he continues, “if our planets did not depend on it.”

Not-Rodimus’s hand is still extended.

He could run.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t take Not-Rodimus’s hand either.

“Go, then.” He says, taking a step towards Not-Rodimus. “Walk.”

Not-Rodimus lets his hand drop, turns, and walks, leaving Drift to follow him.

“Tell me what you’ve been told, about the Guiding Hand,”

Drift starts at the apparent non-sequitur. Then he starts speaking, almost without thinking. “They were - the first Cybertronians. Primus, the first, the light-bringer,” he says, “Solumus, the god of wisdom, Epistemus, the god of knowledge, Adaptus, the god of change,” he says “and Mortilus, the god of death,”

Not-Rodimus smiles indulgently, “Go on,”

“They created - Cybertronians, but Mortilus rebelled against Primus, seeking to bring death to the universe. He was defeated - killed -” At that, Not-Rodimus lets out a huff of laughter, quickly bit back, but does not interrupt. “- but in the war, the other members of the Guiding Hand were reduced to parts. Primus,” he continues, and Not-Rodimus’s face twitches, “became part of Vector Sigma, that gave life to the rest of Cybertron.” He stops, feeling almost as if he’s said too much, as if he’s given something away.

Not-Rodimus looks amused. “That’s all?”

“No,” Drift grimaces, another low fuel warning popping up, “I was planning on reciting the full Primal Sacrament, you want to get to the _point_?”

Not-Rodimus grins at him. “What about the Knights of Cybertron?”

“They were the first Cybertronians,” Drift says, “After the Hand broke apart, they set out to spread Cybertronian wisdom throughout the galaxy, and then created Cyberutopia. Which is _supposed_ to be this planet.” He can imagine Ratchet making air quotes around ‘supposed’.

He chuckles. “Well, I suppose, if you call it that, you can say it _is_ this planet, though we didn’t found it, we _returned_ to it.”

“ _We_ ?” Drift stares at him, disbelieving. “You’re telling me _you’re_ one of the Knights of Cybertron? This -” He can’t quite get the words out.

He doesn’t - he hasn’t had time to think, not really, but - but somewhere in all the lies the doppelgangers had told him, he had assumed, he had let himself assume, that one constant was right, that the Knights were still out there, and that - that what had happened to him, it was -

It was wrong. It wasn’t the Knights.

It wasn’t what he had been searching for.

But -

“That’s not what we’d call _ourselves_ , certainly, but that is what the Circle of Light - called us,” Not-Rodimus lets out a long sigh. “Information creep. Information creep and propaganda. J - well, some of the others would call it fascinating. But -”

“But?”

“You said we lied to you, and, I suppose, from your point of view, that’s partly true. But that is nothing - _nothing,_ to how you - your whole planet - has been lied to for the past Age. _Primus_ , the first?!” He scoffs, Drift flinches. “We knew, of course, what has happened to Cybertronian belief,” he adds, “but - it is different to hear it directly from you. And I do feel sorry for you, Drift,” he says, turning back to look at him, reaching out a hand towards Drift’s face-

Drift steps back.

Not-Rodimus smiles sadly and lets his hand drop. “You have so much belief, so much faith. You’ve done so much,  and if they had only told you - if you had only known the truth -” he sighs, “you shouldn’t have to be this way. It hurts, to see faith spent on those who cannot give you what you need. But it’s not your fault. You could not have done any more,” he says. “You could never find salvation in the grace of a dead traitor.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh, Drift,” he says, “Primus has only ever been a betrayer.”

“ _Liar -_ ” Drift spits, hands tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“Am I?” Not-Rodimus asks, tilting his head, utterly unphased. “I will not keep you here. If you truly believe I am lying - if you are _sure,_ after all you have seen - you can turn around and walk back. But know that if you do, you will doom Cybertron’s future.”

“You _are_ lying. All of you, you’ve been lying this whole time -”

“And if I’m not?”

Drift steps back. “You’re saying Primus - _Primus_ \- was a traitor.”

Not-Rodimus smiles at him, “Why don’t you sit down?”

Drift’s legs are still shaking from underfueling. “I’ll stand.”

He shrugs, and leans against a wall casually, just like -

He’s not Rodimus.

“All along, you’ve been taught that the Guiding Hand was led by Primus, and Mortilus rose up against him, seeking to destroy him and the rest of the Guiding Hand.” Not-Rodimus laughs. “It’s a perverse inversion of the truth. Mortilus was always the leader of the Guiding Hand, and Primus, his second, betrayed him, leading the other members of the Hand in a mutiny in an attempt to destroy what Mortilus had created.

“But the most pernicious lie you’ve been told is that Mortilus was killed.”

Drift’s eyes widen, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, a shot of sudden, reflexive fear coursing through his systems. Not-Rodimus optics are completely focused on him.

“Mortilus,” Not-Rodimus says, after a moment, briefly bowing his head in deference as he says the name, “is on this planet. He is our creator, the first of us, and the highest and purest among us.”

Not-Rodimus smiles at Drift’s expression.

“You have been told that the five of the Guiding Hand were the first Cybertronians, that they came into being on Cybertron. That - well, I would say it could scarcely be further from the truth, but,” he chuckles, “they _were_ the first beings on Cybertron, but not because they were born there,” Not-Rodimus says, “but because they _created_ Cybertron,”

“ _What -?_ ”

But, amidst his shock, something clicks in the back of his processor, something Rung had said, about the Necrobot’s planet -

“I think you actually visited the mold they used.” Not-Rodimus says, “Yes, it found quite a different orbit after the five used it, though eventually, of course,” he adds, “a piece of Cybertron did find it again,”

“The Necrobot.”

“Ah, yes, that is what you called him, I always forget that little nickname.” He says, “He was one of Mortilus’s favorites, though,” he adds, almost to himself, “I suppose it’s for the best that Mortilus was not awake to see how he spent his final days.”

“He wasn’t ‘awake’?”

Not-Rodimus starts, as though he hadn’t realized Drift had still been listening, then smiles quickly. “Even Gods need rest. Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

“No.”

Not-Rodimus hums. “Well. Where was I?”

“You’re saying -” Drift says, “- you’re saying the Guiding Hand actually _made_ **Cybertron**?”  

Not-Rodimus smiles, “Yes, Drift,” he says, “When the Guiding Hand came into their full strength, they set out to create a civilization that would become their legacy, that could carry their wisdom across the galaxy, a creation the five of them could never achieve alone.

“They set out to try and begin with a place that would be similar to their own home, and eleven million years ago, they found the new trinary system of Lambda Scorpii, and forged Cybertron in the mold fashioned after their home planet.”

“Wait,” Drift says, recalling pages of Primal Sacrement, “that’s not right, Cybertron isn’t only eleven million -”

“Oh, Drift,” Not-Rodimus says, “You - all of Cybertron - you have been so lost in the fog of lies and war, you cannot even see your own stars clearly. The three stars of Lambda Scorpii are only twelve million years old, not the ancient things that the adherents of Primus would have you believe. Perhaps, in time, your species would have rediscovered that knowledge on your own. Fortunately, _you_ don’t have to wait to learn.”

Drift stares. Not-Rodimus smiles.

“The Guiding Hand created a life source for Cybertron, so that it could be the first stage of their new civilization. They created the two orbital stations, so that their creations could have a way to step into the wider universe, when they were ready.”

“Stations - you mean Luna 1 and -”

Not-Rodimus nods. “How else could Luna 1 have traveled so far from Cybertron, if it were not truly meant to be a vessel? Of course,” he adds, “the stations never had the opportunity to fulfil their intended purpose.” He shakes his head. “The mission began well. Cybertron began to populate itself from the life-source they had given it.” A gentle but rueful expression steals over Not-Rodimus’s face. “Mortilus’s first creations, flawed by the hand of Primus. You, Drift.”

He looks at Drift, and his face is soft as he reaches out and brushes a hand along Drift’s shoulder, and there is a part of Drift that wants so badly to pretend that it is Rodimus, that Rodimus is here with him.

“I am so sorry. It is not your fault that your creation was subject to his sin, but it remains with you all the same. I see how you struggle with it, how you suffer,” he says, and Drift -

Drift doesn’t know what to feel.

“I want to free you from it, Drift. I want to free you _all_ from it.”

That freedom, from the weight of what he’s done - that absolution. It’s what he’s been seeking all this time. What he meant to be seeking.

But -

The way he’s speaking about it isn’t anything like Drift understands it. The _way_ he says ‘sin’ - that he uses _that_ word for it -

“Because Primus was a creature of sin, Drift. He sought to usurp Mortilus, to leave Cybertron barren. He brought the other members of the Guiding Hand under his thrall, leading them against Mortilus. Mortilus destroyed them, but could not banish their remnants, could not lift Primus’s influence over the planet and its people. Over your people, Drift.  At least -” he adds, “-not then.

The way Not-Rodimus’s mouth twists when he says ‘Primus’ makes the remaining dregs of Drift’s fuel run cold.

“But,” he continues, “He did create us, after he returned to our home. The five Knights, to replace the other members of the Guiding Hand. Pure creations, untainted by Primus. His own Death Knight, to serve under him. WB--” The word blurs into incomprehensibility. Not-Rodimus frowns. “Wisbit--” He frowns again, pauses, optics shuttered for a moment. “Wisdom-Bitterness,” he finally says, the two words not-quite blurring together, and chuckles “I apologize, not all of our clan names translate completely, since your language diverged - Wisdom-Bitterness to replace Solomus.”

Drift’s head is spinning, and it latches on to translation.

If Not-Rodimus doesn’t normally speak Cybertronian, then -

“Doubt-Judgement to replace Epistemus. War-Laughter to replace Adaptus”

“Wait -” Drift says, finally feeling like he - he has enough solid ground to say something. “Adaptus is the God of Transformation, not - not War, or -”

Not-Rodimus chuckles, “What reason would you have to transform, to have more than one mode, than to be better prepared for War - and victory?”

“And - _laughter_?”

Not-Rodimus considers for a moment, “It’s interesting,” he notes, “the way your - the Cybertronian branch of our language has evolved. It’s hard for our translation algorithms to quite capture the concept. I suppose the best way to put it is that there is no better reason for laughter than victory - or the anticipation of victory.”

It sounds - almost perverse, to Drift.

“You said five Knights,” Drift says, “Who’s the fifth?” _Who are you?_

He smiles, and there’s an edge to it that Rodimus’s face would never quite have. “Of course. To finish the five clans - to avoid recreating the sin of Primus - Mortilus created - myself,” he says, “the Knight of Rage and Wrath, to represent his rage at Primus’s betrayal, and the terrible power of his wrath against those who stood against him.” He taps the center of his chest, where the Autobot badge is, and the metal around it melts and shifts into an entirely different crest, one that looks oddly familiar - something, he realizes with a start, that Rodimus had carved into his desk - not the most prominent symbol, one of the smaller ones, but still one that had appeared more than once.

“You don’t seem particularly angry,” he says, as he recovers himself.

Not-Rodimus just smiles knowingly. “Neither do you. But we’re both a bit more than meets the eye, aren’t we?”

Drift is suddenly, painfully aware of the sword in his hand.

 _not me won’t be can’t be_ **_can’t be_ **

There’s a guilty weight to the broken autobrand on his chest. Not-Rodimus looks at him, pitying.

“Drift…” He says, gently, “You carry so much self-reproach with you. You don’t _need_ to. You were the warrior you were meant to be -”

Deadlock.

“No. No, that’s not who I am. No.”

Not-Rodimus bites back whatever he was about to say, his mouth tight for a moment before it softens. “That - all of that guilt, all of that self-loathing, that is what I want to free you from, Drift.”

“You really are,” Drift starts, his vocalizer stuttering, “you really are one of the Knights of Cybertron?”

“Yes, Drift.”

“But - you didn’t -”

Not-Rodimus - the Knight - smiles. “Mortilus sent us to bring his message back to Cybertron, to attempt to spread his word and return the planet to his grace, to root out the influence of Primus and allow Cybertron to be what it was meant to be.

“Of course, we failed. We had to leave Cybertron, to return to our home, to try a new way. But some part of our message stayed, the part that saw how we were trying to help Cybertron, as - distorted as that has become over the ages,” he says, “and it stayed with the Circle of Light.”

Drift starts, optics wide.

“Yes, Drift,” he says, with a soft smile. “It is the faith that you gained with them that makes you the key.”

“Wait -” Drift starts, “you, you _returned_ home? This is where you - you and the Guiding Hand - are _from?_ Cyberutopia?”

“Cyberutopia…” Not-Rodimus says, and chuckles. “Really, the Cybertronian language has twisted so much, just hearing it from you is - well. This place - it’s Cybertron’s origin, it’s most-perfect version. It’s not difficult to understand how that - shifted, from knowing this place to be Cybertron’s template - it’s quintessence, you could say,” he grins, “- to believing it to be a utopia modeled on Cybertron.” He adds. “Naturally, we call it by it’s true name, Quintessa.”

“So the Knights of Cybertron - the Guiding Hand - you aren’t even Cybertronian?”

“Of course not,” he says. “We’re Quintessons.”

\---

“‘Where is Minimus?’ Of course,” Not-Minimus says dismissively, “He’s on Cyberutopia. We know well enough where he is.”

“What have you done to him?” Rodimus shouts, his engine churning furiously.

“Nothing,” Not-Minimus says, “yet. We have no need to.”

“You -” Rodimus clenches his teeth. “If you touch any of _my crew -_ ”

“But we already have.” Not-Minimus says, “We have Drift. It is pointless to threaten us.”

“ _Where. is. Drift?_ ”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Not-Minimus stares at Rodimus’s guns, then up at Rodimus. “Well, are you going to shoot me or not?” He asks. “Or, do you not want to shoot this face?”

“ _Don’t -_ ”

“It’s fascinatingly perverse,” Not-Minimus says, “The way you look to this one for wisdom, when he’s so foolish as to try to hide the way he was truly forged. All of you, running away from your forging, like you _know better_ \- I would say he’s the worst of the pitiable lot, but then, you have _those tw-”_

“Shut up.” Rodimus says. “Shut up. You don’t get a fucking say. Maybe he was forged wrong. Maybe _I_ was. We get to decide, because it’s **our** _fucking lives,_ and you don’t know sh-”

“‘Forged wrong’? What a concept. But of course, you would think of it, from your ship teeming with _Primus-born_ half-breeds. It’s a pity. Besides,” He says, contemptuously, “I am as qualified as -” he tips his head, almost in - deference? “all but one - to know. Certainly more than _you_ , or _him_.” He adds, looking down at his imitation of Minimus’s form, a slight sneer crossing his face.

“Shut _up_ ,” Rodimus says again, “Where is Minimus? _Where is my crew_?”

\---

_Quintessons?_

“You’re - _what?_ ” Drift screws up his face, trying to think if he can remember _ever_ hearing that name before.

The Knight chuckles. “Of course, I don’t expect that to mean anything to you _now,_ of course, ever since we left Cybertron, we’ve largely kept to ourselves, except for some… experiments,” he adds, “and even there, we’ve kept our true names … out of focus.”

“Why? Why hide?”

“There was work to be done,” he says with a smile, “and - after nearly ten million years, the ...diluted version of the Knights of Cybertron was easier for most, and we did want to make your quest as easy as possible, Drift. We have waited - well, I suppose in the scale of things, it’s not that long, but - the years since you’ve set out have been some of the longest in my life, and I am far older than any Cybertronian living. We wanted you to make it here safely.” He says, “we wanted you to come here so badly, Drift.”

“ _Why?_ ”

He knows - he _knows_ it’s supposed to be Rodimus, Rodimus was _meant_ to come here, he _saw_ it -

 _Why_ me _? I’m not -_

“You - “ Drift starts again, “you said I’m the - the ‘key’, but that _can’t_ be right -”

“Of course you are,” the Knight says gently, “Who else’s faith would be enough to light the way, to do what needs to be done?”

“‘What needs to be done’?”

“Saving Cybertron,” he says, “giving it a second chance to be what it was meant to be.”

“I -”

“Your planet is dying, Drift, it has been for a long time. How long since there were regular pulsewaves? How long has the planet been nearly barren?” He asks. “Your kind - our children, are on the verge of extinction, and you can stop it.”

“I - _how_?”

“Cybertron has been paying the price of Primus’s sin, of his attempts to lock away the power of the planet. That is what has been leading your planet to ruin. But, now that the lock has broken, we can reignite that power, and let the planet be the shining jewel it was meant to be.

“You, Drift,” he says, smiling, “ever since you were forged, since Mortilus’s creation breathed life into your spark, you have been destined for this. Your faith makes it possible for you to have a unique connection with the power of Cybertron.”

“Vector Sigma,” Drift says, “you’re talking about Vector Sigma.”

The Knight starts with surprise, but everything is clicking into place for Drift - his sword through his spark - _of course_ -

“This - this is about what happened in Vector Sigma. That I put my sword - my greatsword - through my spark. It -” what had Ratchet said? “ - it conducts spark energy and - it connected me to Vector Sigma?”

“Yes, Drift.”

“Then this isn’t about -” _me_ “ - faith at all, or the Circle of Light, it’s -”

“Of course it is, Drift,” the Knight says, softly, apparently taken aback, “Who else would have the faith in their spark to undertake such a drastic step, or the faith to create such a strong connection with one of our swords?”

“One of _your_ swords?”

“Of course,” the Knight says, “who do you think gave them to the Circle of Light? We knew that they would one day be necessary to reforge a connection with Vector Sigma, once Primus’s lock was broken, once the connection could be reforged true. And we knew the Cybertronians of the Circle of Light would have the strength of faith to undergo the forging, and then return to us.”

“What I saw in Vector Sigma -” Drift starts, and the Knight nods.

“We sent you that message, hoping that you would understand, that you would be able to follow the way back home.” The Knight smiles at Drift. “And you did. You’ve been so brave.”

“Why did I see Rodimus?” Drift asks, the question starting from his vocalizer, finally unable to be held back. “If you wanted me to come here - why did I see _Rodimus_?”

“I don’t know for certain,” the Knight admits, “It may be that you saw him because he was who you wanted to see,”

Drift’s spark casing feels too tight, something inside him clenched tight around the feeling.

_what you wanted_

Ratchet had asked him once, if he would have done what he had if he had seen someone other than Rodimus.

He hadn’t had an answer.

The Knight looks sympathetically at his expression, “Of course, the connection between Primus’s lock and Vector Sigma was strong enough that there may have been - remnants, in the connection, remnants that connected to Hot Rod because of his -”

“Rodimus,”

“What?”

“You called him Hot Rod. His name’s Rodimus.”

There’s a flash in Not-Rodimus’s eyes that makes Drift reflexively tighten his grip on his sword, that makes him think that the Knight might not be so misnamed, but it’s gone almost before the impulse has passed from his processor to his hands. “Ah, of course, you know him best that way. We remember you all under the names you were forged with, of course.”

“His name’s Rodimus.” Drift repeats.  

“Of course,” the Knight allows, with a vaguely condescending smile, “I wouldn’t want to make this more difficult for you.”

“Why - why would Rodimus have been connected to Vector Sigma?”

“Not Vector Sigma,” the Knight says, “the lock, Primus’s lock. It was - attached to him, as I understand it.”

“You’re talking about the _Matrix_?”

“Yes, that is what you call it.” the Knight says, “Primus sought to keep the power of Vector Sigma beyond the reach of its true creator, and locked away the connection to it in the - ‘Matrix’. It’s acted according to the whims of its circumstance, but that does not change the fact that, as Primus intended, it has slowly choked off life to Cybertron,” he says.

“Until it was broken.”

What had happened to Cybertron, after he had come out of Vector Sigma -

“Yes,” he says, “and as you saw, it showed the way back home - the way that Primus would have kept hidden.” He smiles at Drift, who can only imagine how the roiling confusion is manifesting on his face. “You saw how your planet was renewed - that is only a fraction of what will be possible with a true connection to Vector Sigma reforged, one that will bring us together,” he says, with a hand outstretched towards Drift, ghosting over Drift’s shoulder and moving back before Drift can even flinch, “Quintessa and Cybertron, as we were meant to be.”

“It’s in my spark,” Drift says, pieces finally clicking into place, “Vector Sigma - my - _your_ sword,” he gestures with the sword in his hand, “and my spark - that’s what you needed. It’s in there.” He feels the sudden urge to cover his chest, to block the hole over his spark, the cut through the Autobot badge. The Knight’s gaze on him feels suddenly - invasive.

 _Not-Rodimus. He’s_ not _Rodimus._

If Rodimus - if _Rodimus_ ever saw his spark -

Drift wouldn’t want him to look at it like that - like it was just the next cog he needed. Couldn’t evenimagine it.

“Yes,” the Knight says, “you _are_ the key, Drift,”

“You trapped me in there - with - with my sword through my spark,” At that, he _does_ clasp a hand protectively over the hole in his chest. “with that _nightmare -_ ”

The Knight holds up his hands, “I know this - all of this - has been a shock for you,” he says, “learning this - all of this - we thought it would be too much - _I_ thought it would be too much, until now,” he says, with a chagrined smile. “We wanted to make it easier to fulfill your purpose. We wanted to show you a vision of paradise before we could show you the real thing.”

“That was supposed to be _paradise?_ That was supposed to make it easier?”

He chuckles, “It was a learning experience for us, to be sure. Even with all we know, it is hard to fully internalize the way your society has … ‘evolved’. It was Judge, I think, who insisted it would be a truer paradise if we kept to our ways.” He shakes his head. “I suppose it would require some modifications … not that we’ll ever have need to use it again, thankfully,” he says, smiling at Drift. “I’m sorry it was distressing to you. But now that you know the truth,” he continues, “you can walk to it openly. No illusion.

“You can save your planet.”

\---

**_Then_ **

“C’mon,” Rodimus leans back against the desk. “C’moooon. C’mon c’mon. Magnus. C’mon.” He kicks his heels. “Magnuuuuuusss,”

“Rodimus.”

“Yes?”

Magnus sighs.

“ _Mags.”_ Rodimus grins, “ _No one_ likes _every_ bit of music equally. You have to have _some_ favorites.”

“I - “ Magnus starts, “I find all kinds of music interesting.”

“Swerve says you like Earth ‘crooners’.”

Magnus barely - just barely - flushes. Rodimus’s grin widens. “I hope you would know better than to listen to everything Swerve says.”

“Uh- _huh._ ” Rodimus says, happy to take the excuse not to reveal that he doesn’t have the faintest idea what a ‘crooner’ is. “Swerve’s got a movie night again tonight, you know.”

“I am aware.”

“And that meaaaans...?”

Magnus frowns at him. “I am far too busy dealing with the damage Getaway did to the ship to have time for … movie nights.” He says, in a tone that suggests that Rodimus should _also_ be too busy for such things.

Rodimus flexes his fingers. “Movie nights _are_ dealing with the damage. Crew bonding’s more important now than ever.”

Magnus hums skeptically. “There are more productive ways to…” He coughs, and then trails off, and Rodimus can’t help but think that he’s thinking of a now-abandoned lecture hall.

“‘Sides,” Rodimus says quickly. “I did all my paperwork, you can’t have that much work.”

“Did you comment on my report on the state of the oil reservoir?”

“I commented on the first ha-” Magnus holds up a datapad, “-aaathird. The first third.”

Magnus squints at the pad. “These are … hieroglyphics.”

“Emojis, Mags,”

“What?” Magnus looks at him. “That’s not a word.”

“Is too!”

Magnus looks at him.

“C’mon, that one’s a thumbs-up, that’s not hard to understand.”

Magnus sighs.

“Sooo…” Rodimus says, hoping to distract Magnus from the unfinished report. “Earth music that isn’t crooners, what’re your favorites?”

“I don’t see why that’s material.”

“Ah! So you _do_ have favorites.” Rodimus grins. “C’mon, Mags,”

“You sound as though you think you already know the answer,” Magnus says. “Why ask me?”

“‘Cause I want to hear you say it,” Rodimus says, “why not?”

Magnus groans and mumbles something.

“Can’t heeeear you,” Rodimus says, leaning over.

Magnus leans over and tells him.

Rodimus immediately tugs a datapad out of his own subspace, holding it up triumphantly. “Ta-DA!”

“What?” Magnus grabs at the datapad immediately, Rodimus lets him have it.

“The release date for the new album got moved up. Figured you’d be too busy to notice, but Swerve downloaded it, and -” He grins and shrugs.

Magnus scrolls through the tracklist. Rodimus grins wider.

“So?”

“I -” Magnus finally looks up at him. “Thank you, Rodimus.”

If his smile gets any wider his jaw struts are going to snap. “Hey, I’m trying, you know. Like I said, I - yeah.”

They both sit in silence for a moment.

“I am glad I joined this ship,” Magnus says, then shakes his head. “I am glad I joined _you._ ” The emphasis on ‘you’, the implicit exclusion, goes well understood. “I do not regret it.”

“Even getting _back_ on?” Rodimus asks, aiming for teasing and landing closer to desperate than he’d like.

“Yes.” Magnus says. After a moment, adds, “Optimus is - not infallible.”

Rodimus’s face scrunches in some way that’s probably somewhere between a smile and a wince. Whatever. He doesn’t have a mirror. He pats Magnus on the arm and hopes that compensates for whatever the hell his face is doing.

“You want to listen to this? I can sit here and - finish commenting on this report,” he says, and tries to make it sound like the verbalization of that concept is not being painfully dragged out of him, “or - or I can get out of your hair, and see you at movie night?”

“I do not have hair.” Magnus says, and then adds. “I don’t know if I would make for very good company this evening.”

“I think you’re fine company.” Rodimus says, and doesn’t miss that Magnus hadn’t commented on Rodimus sitting in his office. “I’m just going to stay here and read, and we can both listen, and then you can decide later, sound good?”

“I doubt it will take the entire remaining time between,” Magnus checks a chronometer, “2147, and ‘movie night’, to listen to this album.”

“We can listen to it again, if you like it.” Rodimus says, shrugging. “I once listened to the same song on repeat for six weeks, I won’t mind.”

“If you’re sure,”

“Absolutely.” Rodimus says, sitting down and leaning back in the chair, holding up the datapad, “I’m not going anywhere.”

\---

**Now**

“You think _you_ can find them?” Not-Minimus says contemptuously. “You fool. You should have listened to your betters.”

Rodimus stares at him, and then lowers his guns. “You know,” he says, “My First Officer’s better than me in about half a million ways. But you’re not him.”

He walks away.

\---

_you can walk to it openly_

Drift thinks of the dark chamber he had been laid out in, the rising panic at the feeling of his frozen limbs, his paralyzed body, the way his spark burned around his sword.

Of course. Of course they want him to go back there, that was what the doppelgangers had been trying to do all along, turn him around, drag him back to that chamber -

Walking back there, himself?

He thinks about facing the door to that chamber, walking inside, even as his legs shake with fatigue, climbing up on the pedestal inside -

He could do it.

_You can save your planet._

He looks at the floor. “If I do this - what happens to -” _me_ “- to my spark, and - Vector Sigma?” He asks, trying not to hold back the quaver in his voice.

“Oh, Drift,” the Knight says, “we would never do anything to hurt one of our children. Once we - _you_ \- have successfully completed the connection with Vector Sigma, Cybertron will be restored again. You came here seeking a paradise, and Cybertron will become that paradise, Drift. The planet - Vector Sigma - all of it will be what it was meant to be. And so will you.

“You will be more connected to Vector Sigma - to your whole planet - than anyone since Mortilus. You will be like one of us,” he says, and reaches out a hand, settling it on the crossguard of Drift’s sword, fingers reaching out to just, just barely trace across Drift’s knuckles, “a Knight. A Knight of Cybertron.” He chuckles, “Won’t that be fitting?”

_I think we’re the Knights._

He feels like he could choke on his past words.

This doesn’t feel -

“I - _I’m_ not -”

The Knight sighs gently, with a soft smile, “I know you don’t believe you’re worthy. I understand; you are drowning in sin,” there’s a moment, where something - loosens, and Drift can almost feel the rivulets of energon running down the tips of his fingers, the blood he’s felt on his hands over and over and over -

And then the sensation is gone, and he’s left only with the echoes of it; echoes that will never - _have_ never gone away.

“All of this - this pain, this guilt. Once you do this, you’ll be free of it,” he says, “that’s why you came here, is it not?”

_this is salvation - how is this not what you want?_

He’d heard that in Rodimus’s voice too.

But - if this can be real - if he can actually -

“I’ll be forgiven?”

“Of _course_ you’ll be forgiven, Drift,” Not-Rodimus says, running his fingers over Drift’s, “you’ll be _revered._ ”

Something inside him cringes at the word, and it must show on his face, because the Knight smiles at him.

“I know it’s not an idea you’re used to,” he says, “you’ve been suffering for so long - even before the war,” he continues, and Drift - Drift thinks of the emptiness of the Dead End streets. Not-Rodimus’s optics are soft, seemingly understanding, “and now - after everything you’ve been through, everything that’s made you believe you need to carry all this guilt. I see how you suffer.

“You’ve tried so hard to make the pain go away, Drift. I know. I know you tried - in Dead End, in the War, with our Circle of Light, in following Primus,” he says with a shake of his head, “the source of your sin. And,” he adds, smiling, “of course, in following the vision that led you here.”

Drift shakes with exhaustion.

_make the pain go away_

He wants to rest. The weight of all of the struggles the Knight describes, of all the millions of years, seems to hang on him.

He almost doesn’t notice as the Knight leans closer, one hand moving from Drift’s sword to just under Drift’s wrist, gentle, steadying pressure, keeping him upright, drawing him closer.

“You just want the pain to stop,” he says, simply, and Drift thinks, yes, yes, that’s it, yes, I do, please -

“I know,” the Knight continues, “so much of what you’ve been through has seemed futile, you have been so misled, and Drift, I am so sorry. But all of what you have been through _has_ brought you here, and that, Drift,” he shakes his head with a gentle smile, “you are so _extraordinary,_ to have seen what you’ve seen, to have made it here,” he squeezes Drift’s hands, “you’ve shown, in spite of everything, that you have the faith in your spark to be the key. You can make it stop. Together, Drift, we can make your planet, we can make _you_ free from sin, free from _pain._

“You’ve spent so long trying to find a way to free yourself,” he says, “and now you have. You’ve found the way - the _only_ way - to wash it away - to make it _stop._  

Drift - it’s what you’re destined for.”

It feels like it’s all swirling in his processor, melting together _forgiveness_ and _pain_ and _free_ and _sin_ and _key_ and _destined_ and _faith_

_that’s why you came here, is it not?_

This whole journey, the quest -

A perfect Cybertron. A perfect _him._

He doesn’t have to suffer anymore.

“Drift?” Not-Rodimus asks, softly, and Drift realizes that he’s been standing in unfocused silence. “Will you walk with me?”

“Yes,” Drift hears himself say.

His hand closes around Drift’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (from the notes at the front) A thread of what's happening with Drift's arc this chapter is emotional manipulation with a specific religious guise, along the lines of references to being cleansed of sin, etc. It's tightly enough interwoven with what's happening with Drift and the mythology overall that it's hard for me to give you specifics on where to skip, but if it definitely sounds like a problem, skip Drift's scenes from the one starting with “What I’m meant for?” and then just drop me a comment, I can give you the non-creepy version of the mythbuilding and the plot relevant details in those scenes. 
> 
> \---
> 
> I PROMISED MYTHBUILDING AND (some of it) IS FINALLY HERE.
> 
> Simon Furman once said that Cybertron orbited Lambda Scorpii, which is, to the best of our current scientific knowledge, a trinary system somewhere between 10 and 13 million years old. I would never knowingly lie to you about astrophysics. The rest of the claims made in this chapter, on the other hand...
> 
> That detail about Lambda Scorpii comes courtesy of Kepler. Most of the mythbuilding this chapter came out of a lot of us discussing / yelling about Quintessons over chat / Kepler sending me tfwiki links, so, as always, thanks and credit to them!! 
> 
> And thanks to YOU for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: Rodimus, finding that this Minimus doesn’t correct grammatical errors or fixate on the Lost Light sprinkler system, realizes he’s being confronted with a fake, and turns around from where Not-Minimus had been leading him out of the tunnels, going back to try again to find Drift.
> 
> Drift meets another fake Rodimus, but when Drift realizes he is a fake, the doppelganger presents him an new version of the Cybertronian mythos, claiming that the Guiding Hand were Quintessons, and that Primus had betrayed Mortilus, not the other way around. The doppelganger identifies himself as one of the Knights of Cybertron, the next generation of Quintessons, created by Mortilus to replace the Guiding Hand. He offers Drift the chance at absolution by using the connection he had made with Vector Sigma to restore Cybertron. An exhausted Drift accepts the offer, and follows the Knight.
> 
> Chapter Songs: Breath Of Life - Florence and the Machine; King of Anything - Sara Bareilles; Dangerous - Shinedown; Rise Up - Foxygen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while, huh? Happy belated New Year to all, and welcome to 2019!
> 
> Thanks for your patience - I hope another 10K chapter makes up for the wait! Thanks to everyone who's been cheering me on while I've been struggling with this one.
> 
> Just a heads up that, to a lesser degree, the extra warnings from last chapter apply again here as well.

**_Then_ **

The briefing room is an unfamiliar space to Deadlock. He may not even have been in _this_ particular briefing room before, he’s been deployed for too long - the Decepticon flagship may be a completely new ship, it’s been years since his division has received orders in person. He wouldn’t know, he wasn’t the one bothered with piloting the shuttle here.

If it is a different room, it’s laid out roughly the same as Deadlock’s vague memory of it. He stands to the right-hand side, keeping a vaguely wary eye on Starscream, sorting through the updates that have come in to his processor since he arrived on the flagship - personnel information on soldiers who will be added to his next deployment, updates on intelligence - he barely skims those, Soundwave will relay him anything relevant as priority.

There’s a nervousness running through the rest of the room as they all wait for Megatron’s arrival. Deadlock deliberately rolls his shoulders back; he barely recognizes a third of the room, even with the few of them here, most of them must be new builds.

The diffuse tension in the room immediately draws to a focal point when Megatron enters. He only makes eye contact with Deadlock for a brief moment, and for that moment, Deadlock isn’t Deadlock, but a mech with energon burning in his systems and hope in his spark, waiting for a name.

Without thinking about it, he stands up straighter as Megatron reaches the front of the room.

There’s no information here that couldn’t have been transmitted more efficiently; he already had the assignments relevant to him. The meeting isn’t for the information, it’s to hear Megatron speak, to secure conviction and morale that might be flagging, and for Megatron to watch them in person, to look for signs of disloyalty.

There’s no reason he should be here; his conviction is sure, his morale is irrelevant to his ability to shoot, and unless Starscream has been whispering about him again, Megatron has no reason to doubt his loyalty.

Megatron mentions Deadlock’s deployment, directing attention to several of the officers involved, including Deadlock. Deadlock only nods at the acknowledgement, not letting his face betray emotion; reviews the deployment orders and personnel information he already has as Megatron gestures around the room, absently notes an error and doesn’t comment.

His attention slips further as Megatron discusses another deployment, reviewing the tactics of his own orders instead while he lets the cadence of Megatron’s voice wash over him. He maintains enough focus to stand to attention as Megatron concludes his remarks, dismisses the room.

Deadlock lingers even as others file out and Starscream glares at him.

“Deadlock,” One gesture of Megatron’s hand is enough for him to follow as Megatron leaves the room, Starscream’s glare at his back like the point of a blade.

Megatron looks at him, coming to a stop in his office. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciated the chance to hear you speak,” Deadlock says, Megatron nods. “It was fortunate that our ship was close enough to be redirected.”

Megatron nods, doesn’t give any further hint as to why Deadlock is here. “I hear you’ve been giving the medics some trouble.”

“Most of the energon they have to scrub out isn’t mine.” Deadlock says, his smirk full of fang and bravado.

“Good. We’ve been losing too many, we can’t afford to lose you too.” He looks directly at Deadlock, who has no idea what to say to that.

Fortunately, Megatron continues, “Did you have any comments on your orders?”

“Lieutenant Magnite is a new addition to my deployment, you spoke about her in your remarks.”

“Ah,” Megatron says, after a moment’s consideration. “Did I say him?”

“Yes,” Deadlock says, then adds, “sir,” to soften it, “I only got the personnel update upon arrival, as she was assigned with me.”

Megatron considers. “I’ll have to have Soundwave find a better way of flagging such updates before briefings, there’s no need to embarrass command with simple errors in front of the troops. If you speak to the Lieutenant, do inform her that I won’t repeat the error.”

“Of course.” Deadlock says, “With regards to the deployment - Cestus IV,”

Megatron holds up a hand, turning to pull up a file on a holographic display on his desk, as well as a map of the system. “Yes. Cestus, continue.”

“Cestus III is larger and more populated, with several key population centers. Why IV?”

Megatron frowns at the file for a moment, then, “ah, Cestus IV has the major _religious_ center of the Cestians.” He taps one point the surface of the floating map. “Destroy their idols, break their will. The cleanup crew on Cestus III will have a much easier job.”

Deadlock snorts. “Seems too easy to think they’ll crumble like that.”

“Never underestimate the importance of symbols.” Megatron says, looking at Deadlock.

Deadlock nods. It won’t be his first time killing priests, anyway. It’s not much fun, but it is quick. “If it’s what is necessary to win.”

“And after we win, Deadlock?” Megatron asks, “What do you want to do?”

Deadlock is not going to survive the war. The thought of him, after the war - it’s genuinely unsettling.

(He also knows that means not living to see their victory; but he’s already seen it, in his processor, a thousand times, felt it in his spark, knows it like he had seen it from out of time.)

He revisits the briefing again, actually thinking through all of the information, not just what is relevant to him. Underneath the bravado, the data is bleak. Deadlock understands why he’s here; Megatron’s head is in that place it sometimes goes, where the sacrifice weighs heavier, where the vision that drives the violence seems dangerously far away.

So he lies to him.

Megatron knows he’s lying, but this is what he has to hear to keep going, so Deadlock says it anyway.

“I want to rebuild Cybertron,” he says, with a smile that shows fang.

“Cybertron?” Megatron asks, but it’s clear he’s not truly surprised, “Out of all the planets in the Decepticon Empire?”

“I will go wherever you send me, _my lord._ ” The tone is the closest to irreverence Deadlock will get, and only ever in private. Megatron’s mouth twitches towards a smile. _“_ Never really got attached to any of the planets I fought on.” He shakes his head, “and I’m not like the new builds, I still remember Cybertron,” he says, “I want Cybertronians to grow up there. I want them to know the universe is _theirs_ . I don’t want any of them to grow up as powerless as I did,” he stares down at the table. “As powerless as I _was_ before I became a Decepticon.”

“As I recall," Megatron says, a tinge of amusement in his voice, "you had some skill before you became a Decepticon.”

“Skill is not power,” Deadlock says. “I didn’t know who I _was_ before you found me. Firing a gun is one thing,” he continues, “having a reason is another. And something worthwhile to shoot.” He adds, his smile all sharp teeth.

Megatron looks him in the eye, and Deadlock is sure that Megatron sees through the facade of his imagined future, but he doesn’t comment.

“Thank you, Deadlock,” he says instead, moving to sit behind his desk, a clear dismissal.

Deadlock nods, but stops before he gets to the door, looks back. “We are going to win.”

Megatron looks up at him for a long moment. “Of course.”

Deadlock is going to die, but they are going to win; that is more than his life is worth.

\---

**Now**

Rodimus raises his guns at the glimpse of white and red plating in the shadows of the hall.

“Drift?”

“Rodimus.” Possibly-Drift says, a slight edge to his voice.

Rodimus wants to relax at the sound of Drift’s voice, but the echoes of the fake Drift keep the tension in his struts.

_“You think you can find them?”_

And Not-Minimus, too. This feels too easy.

“Don’t come any closer.” Rodimus says.

Possibly-Drift stops in the midst of walking forward, partly out of the deepest shadows, into the fading light. There’s edges that seem - wrong, something on Drift’s arms that wasn’t there before, something off about the colors on his plating, something sharp in the light of his eyes.

Rodimus wracks his processor - he can’t be sure this is the real Drift, but he can’t be sure it’s _not,_ and there has to be a way he can tell the difference.

Doubles - like in the earth sci fi Nightbeat likes - there’s always a way to beat them. He just has to think of something they wouldn’t know, that he and Drift do. Something they wouldn’t have discovered.

His processor hops between conversations, conversations over meals in Drift’s quarters, on the mats after sparring, in the dark when they’d stopped paying attention to the movie they’d planned to watch  - Dead End, Crystal City, Dai Atlas, Wing, Gasket, the Decepticons -

“Drift’s last Decepticon commander,” Rodimus starts, “what was his name?”

\---

Drift follows the Knight’s lead, focused on the point of connection, the pressure on his hand from the Knight’s grip.

He is going to restore Cybertron. He isn’t going to have to feel like this anymore.

The thought - the thought should fill him with more hope. Relief.

But his processor can barely run for exhaustion, the long stretch of the hours past blurring together in his mind.

 _“You’re absolved, Drift.”_ The nightmare Rodimus, _“It’s okay.”_

 _“I’ve got you.”_ The fake Ratchet, _“Trust me.”_

 _“I vouched for you,”_ The fake Rodimus, _“and they saw that your spark is pure.”_

He’d wanted so badly to believe they’d come back for him.

“The crew - Ratchet, Rodimus - where - where are they?” Drift says, “What happens to them?”

The Knight looks at him with Rodimus’s face. “They’re still on the surface, of course.”

“They’re still looking for you.” Drift says, “they’re - searching for the Knights.”

The Knight nods. He says nothing else, nothing to indicate that the crew has so much as looked for Drift, and Drift feels his engine drop, feels his spark curl in on itself.

“And - after? After I - we reawaken Vector Sigma - will you let them see you? Will I -”

“Drift,” It’s Rodimus’s face that turns to him, so soft, “After we’ve reawakened Vector Sigma, you will have fulfilled your quest, the quest of the whole Lost Light. You will be so much more, then. You don’t need to concern yourself with that future.”

“So I -” Drift starts, feeling cold running deep, “I won’t see them again?”

“Drift, you came all the way here - you began this quest - for absolution,” the Knight says, frowning. “You’ll have it.”

_“this is salvation - how is this not what you want?”_

And he had. The vision he’d had - the need to bring Rodimus there - the Knights - the path laid out in the Matrix - it had seemed so clear, a path laid out for him by Primus. Primus, reaching out to him, telling him that he still had grace. It had seemed - so obvious, just running at the back of his processor, that the vision was a path to clear his own past by restoring Cybertron’s. A path to, at last, peace - real peace, in his spark. Peace through absolution.

And he’d molded _himself_ around that path, that vision, molded his friendship with Rodimus, sacrificed his badge, his home -

_It’s time to stop running._

Once, he’d taken a leap of faith that he didn’t need to keep running from his past, fighting for redemption out in the universe, that he deserved another chance at his home, with his family.

But that’s a different memory.

“But I - if Cybertron is saved - why wouldn’t - why couldn’t I see them again?”

“Rodimus has played his part in bringing you here, and we are grateful for it.” the Knight says, “Drift, we thought you’d be happy. Even though your destinies are diverging, you’ve accomplished your quest.”

_“They were fools to offer you peace.”_

Drift remembers the other fake Rodimus’s face, snarling. Every other time, they had lied. Even this one had begun with lies.

“I don’t believe that,” he finds himself saying, and realizes he believes it, realizes there’s something in his spark that says he’ll see Rodimus again, the real Rodimus, and Ratchet, and Perceptor, and Magnus, and - and the Lost Light, his family. That something in his spark that has driven him all this way.

“Drift,” The Knight says, more sharply, “This _is_ what you’re meant for. It is your destiny; you cannot disobey.”

Drift stops, pulling his hand out of the Knight’s grip, away from Not-Rodimus’s hand.

There’s an ugly twist to Not-Rodimus’s mouth as he turns to face him, the memory of the first fake’s snarl seems more and more appropriate.

“Let me show you,”

Before Drift can move, the Knight’s hand is on his chest, over his spark, and -

\---

“Turmoil.“ Drift says with a frown. “That - he was my last Decepticon commander.”

Rodimus lets out a breath of relief at the correct answer before his chest tightens again - the Decepticons would know that, if this was _somehow_ \- something to do with the Decepticons.

But no - how could it be? And even if it was - what they’d said about Magnus, everything about how he was forged - it didn’t sound much like the Decepticons.

“It really is you,”

“Of course it is,” Drift says, as he steps into the last of the light, and Rodimus can finally see what’s on his arms.

They’re guns, like his old guns, from when -

The doubts creep back - could this be something to do with _some_ former Decepticons, at least? But how -

“Drift - what happened to you?” He asks, waving a hand to Drift’s arms, his guns.

Drift looks down, seemingly surprised that Rodimus was startled. “They’re beginning to perfect me.”

“It looks like -” he wavers, bouncing from foot to foot, “- well, it looks like the guns you had when you were a ‘Con.”

Drift levels a stony stare at him. “You know I left _that_ behind. They’re weapons, first,” Drift says. “They sent me out here to talk to you.”

“They?” Rodimus starts, then shakes his head, reaching a hand out towards Drift. “Nevermind, you can West-Wing at me on the way out, we need to go -”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, “I’m not leaving.”

\---

He’s cold.

He doesn’t know where he is.

No, he knows where he is; he’s looking at Cybertron.

He doesn’t know where he’s _standing._

How did he get here? It’s a vision, that he knows, but -

Rodimus - no, Not-Rodimus - the Knight’s face, full of anger, his hand outstretched, over Drift’s chest -

Oh.

He can’t bring himself to feel anxious about the aftermath. As disoriented as he is - his spark is held in peace.

The kind of peace he’d dreamed about.

He looks out at Cybertron below him, and the whole planet is aglow. Sparks, stretching out towards the horizon, so many that their blue light brightens the night sky. And as he turns, in the distance he sees cities, lit up, shining and beautiful and perfect as he’s never seen them, save in dreams, save in his mind when Rodimus spoke of a golden age.

There is life all around him, and he is alone.

He still does not know where he is standing. As he tries to think about it, one moment it feels as though he is standing on a mountain, one of the peaks of the Manganese mountains, and the next as though he is standing on Luna 2, looking down from above at the great shining orb of Cybertron beneath him, and at the next like he is on another planet entirely, but somehow looking across the vast distance of space to the surface of his home -

The thought doesn’t sit quite right, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s not Cybertron that he would look to for home, but the Lost Light.

No matter where he is now, he is alone.

He can feel the isolation in every strut, in each pump of energon through his systems. The life on Cybertron, the sparkfields, the cities, the people he loves - he is entirely separate from all of those beings, separate in a way that feels wholly different than the distance between planets.

 _You are transcendent_ his processor whispers to him, and indeed there is a weightlessness to how he feels, untethered, only existing in this moment.  

This moment; cold and alone.

_Peace_

He wanted peace. But he -

He’d never wanted to be alone, not to be above the others. Being alone - that was a punishment. A punishment he had thought he had to inflict upon himself, once.

He looks down at Cybertron, aglow with life.

_This is what you can achieve. This is the gift you can bring._

_You can be born anew, Drift._

This is a vision, like the vision that led him to the Knights, like the vision that told him Rodimus needed to be here, that he was important.

_“who you wanted to see”_

This is what he wants to see.

Like they thought the nightmare had been what he wanted to see.

Like the vision that had driven him to the Lost Light, had spurred him across space.

But when he’d been on the slab, trapped and afraid, he had survived - he had _gotten back up_ \- not for the sake of the vision, because he wanted to see _his family_ again.

He doesn’t want this.

Through the transcendent calm and peace, he tears the fire of his spark away.

_No!_

And just as suddenly, he is laying on the floor of the tunnel.

\---

“What?”

“I told you, Rodimus.” Drift tells him, impatient. “I’m not leaving.”

Rodimus stares at him. “You’re not - but you’re - you’re - what? You’re staying _here_?”

“Yes, Rodimus.”

“But - but I -” He shakes his head. “Why?”

“The Knights are here, Rodimus. They brought me here.”

Briefly, absurdly, Rodimus thinks, _but Ratchet was_ joking _about that._

“What - why?”

Drift sighs. “They need me. They needed to perfect me, so I can do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done?”

“You came here to find a way to save Cybertron. And Cybertron does need to be saved, Rodimus. The Knights need to do this.” Drift says, “But you - Rodimus, you are needed elsewhere.”

“Where - no -” Rodimus says, “No, I’m not leaving you.”

Drift looks at him, tired. “Rodimus, they only sent me out here because they thought nothing else would make you go _back._ ”

“Well it _won’t -_ ” Rodimus says, “I - we _all_ came here to find you, I’m not leaving just because someone said - said -” the fact that Drift had said _the Knights_ is finally sinking in.

Drift shakes his head. “Rodimus. _You are needed._ ” He says, an edge to his voice. “To stay here - you’d doom Cybertron.”

“Then come with me.”

“Rodimus,” Drift says, “I am _needed_ here. I cannot leave the Knights.” He looks at Rodimus, a hard look. “I came here to find a way to be absolved of what I did as a Decepticon. This is what I have been asked to do, I can’t disobey.”

\---

“You see,” the Knight says, above him, “this is your path, Drift. Your path to peace.”

“No,” Drift says, trying to catch his breath, “no, that’s not - I don’t want that.”

The Knight stares at him. “You saw -”

“I saw. It’s not - I don’t want it.” He pushes himself further upright. “Not like that.”

“You don’t -” Not-Rodimus snarls. “You’ve come all this way to find _absolution_ and now you turn away from it?”

“ _how is this not what you want?_ ”

“You want to keep living like _this_ ? With what you’ve _done?_ ”

“Not - not like that.” Drift repeats, finally clambering to his feet.

“We know you see it everyday. You can’t forget. Let me remind you.”

Drift tries to dodge, but Not-Rodimus locks his grip around his wrist, and Drift feels the same cold twining up to his spark, up to his processor, and -

\- the world is red.

He readjusts, his sensors integrate to his processor, the filters correct for the red lenses of his optics, he can feel his heavier tread, the pathways that would let him fire the guns on his arms.

He feels every movement in the gears as he stalks forward, but he isn’t the one taking the steps.

He’s trapped in the memory.

The red Autobot badge is what leaps out first, on the chest of the broken Cybertronian, trying to haul himself upright, bracing himself on the doorframe of the building Drift is walking towards. The Autobot has no gun, one leg gone, energon dripping down from a wound in his head, but he still meets Drift’s eyes.

“They’re not a threat.”

Drift feels his voicebox produce the sound of a snort, hears it pronounce the words. “They’re _organics_.”

“You don’t need to do this.” He says. Drift can hear the sounds of the aliens screaming, running through the building the Autobot is protecting, fleeing in search of some better shelter, some better hiding place in the building.

They won’t find one.

There’s no sound that comes from this voicebox, even though Drift wants to scream. Drift feels his arm raise up even as he tries to stop it, feels the pathways for his guns activate, feels them fire, watches the shot go off, burning a hole in the Autobot’s forehead, watches him fall. He doesn’t see the light go out of the Autobot’s eyes, his body is already walking past him -

He wants to scream, but he can still feel his processor, his spark, the satisfaction of a job well done, the anticipation of cleaning the building.

He had been very good at this.

He wants to purge. His body keeps walking. Sight, aim, fire, dead. Sight, aim, fire, dead.

Their blood is blue.

Again.

No Autobot badge leaps out at him; there’s only a back in his sights, a Cybertronian crawling away, only one arm intact, fingers digging into the dirt, crawling towards another Cybertronian, prone, Autobot badge facing the sky, optics fritzing.

He follows the crawling Autobot, follows as he continues to struggle towards his fellow Autobot, follows as he throws himself over the body, putting himself between his companion and Deadlock.

The Autobot’s gun was destroyed with his right arm, there’s nothing for him to do to fight back. He still looks Drift in the eye, desperate.

“Please - he’s my Amica - I’ll do an-”

He remembers for a moment - the memory isn’t forced into his mind from the outside, not like _this_ is - but he remembers Overlord, remembers the medibay, remembers trying to put his swords, his body, between Ratchet and the monster -

He feels his arms raise, his guns fire twice.

He should be crying, but his body won’t. He knows it won’t, in this moment, there isn’t pity in this processor.

Again.

Amidst the dead on the battlefield, corpses whose faces he had seen as they died, amidst the rivulets of blood running through his treads.  

“We surrender, please -”

Aim. Fire.

More dead for the battlefield.

Again.

Blood running down his hands, terror on the face in front of him, rage in his processor -

\- _have to make it stop can’t make it stop can’t -_

Again.

The whirlwind of memories, of faces, of Cybertronians whose names he will never know - it’s too fast now to distinguish between memories, too fast now to pick up anything but the two constants.

Terror. Death.

_Not again._

It stops, he stares up at metal walls and falls to his knees, all the unshed tears rushing down his face at once.

“Drift,” Not-Rodimus says softly, “do you really want to keep living with _that_?” Not-Rodimus kneels down in front of him.

Drift is shaking.

“You can be free. Absolution is _here,_ Drift.”

\---

“You - you can’t _what?_ You can’t _disobey?_ ”

“Are your _audials_ on?” Drift snaps, optics flashing, “ _Don’t_ make me repeat myself.”

Rodimus steps back - Drift isn’t - Drift _knows_ the wires between his audials and his processor get crossed sometimes - okay, a lot of the time. The sharpness in his voice startles him, but he bites back the instinct  to snap back. It takes him a moment to run through the rest of the words. 

“What - what are they asking you to do?” He finally catches one of the other words. “Wait - absolved for -

“I am being given the chance to serve,” Drift says, with a sharp glare at Rodimus’s near-interruption, “in the rebirth of Cybertron.”

“What?” Rodimus starts, “But Cybertron was already - Optimus, and the Matrix, in Vector Sigma. That - it changed the planet.”

There’s something strange on Drift’s face when Rodimus mentions Optimus and the Matrix.

Rodimus presses on.  “You were _there._ You -” but he stops, his vocalizer chokes on the image of Drift with his sword through his spark.

“Vector Sigma hasn’t yet been truly freed,” Drift says, then adds, waspishly, at Rodimus’s confusion, “There have been no new _sparkfields,_ Rodimus. The Knights have revealed _why_. And they know how it can be fixed.”

“Why does it have to be _you_?” The question probably sounds petulant; he doesn’t care.

“Don’t you _understand?_ ” Drift snarls. “This is my chance to be _absolved._ To finally be _purified_ ,” he says, “They will _finally_ reforge me - like they will Cybertron.”

“But -” _I don’t need you reforged, I just want_ you.

He almost says it before he realizes how selfish it sounds in his head.

The knot in his internals, the one that’s been there ever since Drift explained why he wanted to take the fall, tightens a little.

“But - you chose this frame. Why - why would you need to -” he waves at the guns on Drift’s arms, “reforged? And - absolved?”

Drift glares at him. His optics - his optics almost look -

It must be a trick of the light, but his optics almost looked red.

“Why do I need to be _absolved,_ Rodimus?” He says, stalking closer, “Don’t you remember what I _am?_ Or have you forgotten, because it was _inconvenient_ for _you?_ Do you remember how much blood is on my hands, because I thought I knew better than my _place_ \- than what I had been _forged for?_ ”

Drift glares down at him. Rodimus holds up his hands. “I’m not - I haven’t _forgotten,_ Drift, I just -”

What? Thought he was past it? Thought that being accepted on the Lost Light was enough? That it had gone away?

He should know better. He does know better. Blood and nightmares don’t go away.

The vision - the offer he’d been shown, of the perfect Nyon. Of the blood on _his_ hands, washed away.

It wasn’t real.

“Drift, are you sure this is what you want?” Rodimus asks, still working it through -

_“than what I had been forged for?”_

Rodimus resets his audials and plays back the file before he laughs weakly, “‘cause - you’re sounding a bit like a Functionist.”

“Am I not allowed to _respect_ how I was forged?” He snaps.

_What if this isn’t Drift?_

“What more do I have to say to you to make you _leave_ ?” Drift snarls, looming over Rodimus, his fingers sharpened into claws, _Deadlock -_ “Why is it so hard for you to _listen to me_?”

_“Why can’t you just listen to me?”_

The first fake Drift.

“Drift -” he starts, finds he doesn’t quite know what to say.

He thinks about that perfect Nyon again, thinks about the real Nyon, the one the Functionists - the Senate - Zeta - they all would have kept in place.

They had been so cold, some nights. They hadn’t deserved it.

Even if he can’t be sure this is the real Drift, he has to say what he would say to the real Drift. “You know - you _did_ deserve better than that place. The Dead End. We all deserved better than places like that,” he says. “You - we’ve both done things we regret, but that doesn’t mean we deserved that. I don’t know what they’ve said -”

“Shut _up!_ ” Drift shouts, and it’s like a blade through internals. “You - you think you understand everything, don’t you? But you don’t even understand what I _am!_ Deadlock is _alive._ ” His clawed hands reach up, digging into the plating on Rodimus’s chest, and shove him away.

Rodimus steadies himself, takes a deep breath. “Drift, if you’re waiting for me to be scared of you, it’s not going to happen.”

“You _should_ be afraid.” Drift spits, stalking towards him again until his claws hover over Rodimus’s throat. “You - should - _leave._ ”

“No,” Rodimus says, “if you’re going to hurt me, hurt me. Drift - I’m not leaving you.”

\---

“Come with me, Drift,”

The Knight holds out his hand, Rodimus’s hand, reaching down to Drift. Drift looks past where the Knight is standing above him, past, to where the tunnel continues, to where he is to be led.

For a moment, it is every dark alleyway, every unlit building, every nighttime battlefield he has ever been on, the memories still shaking their way through his processor.

What he had done, so utterly convinced it was necessary -

_So much blood._

He falters with the weight of it, half expecting it to drip off his hands.

The memories he lived with, always, even before they had been dragged to the front of his mind - the crystal caves on Arcaon Three, the prayer chambers of the church on Cestus IV, the long halls of the city complex on Huetan, in the rough hewn tunnels where the stone army had waited  -

If he went with the Knight, if what he was saying was true - all of that would be washed away.

He would have peace.

But what peace would there be for them, the children and the clerks, the priests and the monks -?

He has another memory of those tunnels where the monks had lived, and the stone army that had resided there, a time when he’d try to redeem himself, to prevent more harm done in the Decepticon name. After he’d tried to leave the people he loved -

(Looking down, alone, above a new Cybertron -)

In the memory, he’d taken a leap of faith.

_It’s time to stop running._

Maybe it was time he really tried to believe that.

He’d told himself that, as he’d taken a leap, let himself start to believe that the person he’d become - the person who chose to do good - didn’t have to keep punishing himself. Didn’t have to keep running from the people he loved. That he could go home.

He’d taken a leap, and Ratchet had caught him. Literally, too.

But even if he’d stopped punishing himself, he’d never really stopped running, had he? He’d been running for Cyberutopia as much as anyone on the Lost Light, running for the hope of peace, for something better -

\- to be made anew.

But Ratchet hadn’t reached out for a better Drift, a Drift remade, free of his past.

Kup, and Perceptor, and the rest of the Wreckers hadn’t been waiting for Drift to be absolved to give him a place, to fight beside him.

Even _Magnus_ trusted him, now.

And Rodimus - Rodimus had defended Drift’s place, always, just as he was, had made a place for him - had made a _home_ for him, whether it was training, or sharing energon goodies while they watched dumb movies, or just - talking, listening to Drift’s stories that no one else wanted to hear.

The Wreckers - they had seen who he was, what he was - had been on the opposite side of the battlefield more than once. And Magnus had known what he’d done well enough to mistrust him well after he’d joined the crew, but still - now he _cared_. Ratchet - Ratchet had seen the consequences of what he had done, he knew about the priests of the stone army from Gigatron, and Drift had told him about Cestus IV afterward, he’d even seen the wrong end of Drift’s sword - he’d still reached out.

Ratchet had shouted at him, then. Drift can hardly imagine how Ratchet would shout at him now, for even _considering_ this, _of all the idiotically naive, dumbass, chickenshit things to go along with -_

Drift smiles, the expression feels strange on his face after this day. Not-Rodimus looks at him askance.

Rodimus -

After Rodimus had told him about Nyon - Drift hadn’t been able to remember the last time someone had trusted him like that. And when nightmares had come, or when there’d been a familiar face on the battlefield - he could tell him something. A little; in between the stories from Crystal City or Spectralist mythology. And Rodimus would listen, and at the end Drift would still feel his field reaching out for him, as Rodimus offered him energon, or turned on a movie. And he could rest.

He’d asked him, once, how Rodimus had forgiven him everything so easily. Rodimus had just smiled and laughed and said he didn’t think about it that way.

“ _Just glad to have you here, Drift”_

He could almost feel Rodimus’s arm around his shoulder.

He wants that, again, wants to feel Rodimus’s warmth, to make Ratchet laugh, to see one of Perceptor’s rare smiles, just to sit on the observation deck and watch the life of the Lost Light move around him.

 **“Drift - I’m not leaving you.** ”

He looks up - that was Rodimus’s voice, not just a memory, but the Knight hadn’t spoken - in fact, he looks just as surprised as Drift feels.

The voice is gone, and Drift has no idea what direction it could have come from - it seems to have emanated from the walls themselves. The Knight mutters angrily under his breath about glitches, and Drift feels his spark flare for a moment of furious hope.

 _Rodimus is looking for him_.

He doesn’t want the last time he sees Rodimus’s face to be as the guise of this - liar.

He wants to see Rodimus, Ratchet, all of them, the people who had chosen to keep him in their lives, exactly as he was. He wants to see them again, for real.

Maybe he could just be the person they had chosen to love, had chosen as family.

Maybe he really was enough.

He reaches out, braces one hand against the wall, clasps the other one over his spark, feels it, still there, still burning even as his legs tremble.

He stands up.

“No.”

\---

Drift’s claws scrape across Rodimus’s neck as he turns away, rage pulsing through his field, stalking across the room.

“You think they sent me here to _hurt_ you? What the hell do you know -” Drift snarls, “you don’t understand what I am, or what I regret, or what I _need._ But what should I expect,” he spits, “you’ve already shown you don’t know what’s important - you’ve endangered this quest over and over -”

“That’s not -!” Rodimus yells back, before Drift cuts him out.

“- and now you can’t even _go_ to be where you’re _needed_ \- the only reason you’re _here -_ you really are determined to show your ignorance every step of the way, aren’t you? You can’t even do one thing _right?_ ”

This is a nightmare.

“I’m trying to -” Rodimus shouts.

“To rescue me? And you can’t even succeed at that, can you? The crew in the tunnels - you, trapped on your own - trying to rescue someone who _is where they need to be.”_ Drift snorts. “You let me abandon the quest more easily, last time.”

 _“Drift -”_ The bitterness in Drift’s voice could just as well have torn out his spark casing and squeezed -

 _you knew he was angry he was just hiding it for the sake of getting here you knew he hated you all along you_ knew

It all crawls up, cold and sharp from the very pits of Rodimus’s fuel tank, where the last of the waste is left to fester with things long thought forgotten.

“No, you know what, let’s go back to the beginning -” Drift snaps, “you put the quest in danger before it even _started,_ you put _Overlord_ on board, and you did it because you didn’t listen to me - so why don’t you listen to me _now?_ ”

A rush of ice pours through him; he wants to fling it away, to lash back -

(Rung had explained that there were human terms for it, once; it had involved a lot of acronyms.)

\- but Drift is _right,_ and he can feel himself shut down with the weight of it.

_You knew._

Drift doesn’t let go of the momentum. “You seem to find every _possible_ way to try and keep this quest from _ever_ succeeding with your _childishness_ and your _arrogance -_ you weren’t even worthy of the Matrix, _Hot Rod.”_

 _That_ fires his processor, makes him replay the line to make sure it hadn't just crawled up from the pits of his tank into his imagination, like the rest.

He takes a deep breath.

“I deserved all of that… but Drift doesn’t call me that.”

\---

“ _Why?”_ The Knight’s shock at Drift’s refusal rings through his voice.

“I’m not leaving them.” Drift says.

“You’re going to carry -” He waves a hand, as if that could cover all of Drift’s history, “ _that_ the rest of your life.”

“Yes.” Drift’s voice is steady. “I have to.”

“You _don’t_ -” the Knight insists, “- you could wash it all away.”

“No. Not for _them._ ” Drift says, “What I’ve done, that doesn’t go away. You can’t bring those people back, or - or take away what they went through.”

“Oh, Drift,” Not-Rodimus says, keeping his voice low, “You’ve struggled so much with the weight of Primus’s sin -”

“No.” Drift snaps. “ _No._ I accept the weight of what I’ve _done._ I _refuse_ to believe I have to be guilty for being _born._ For daring to _exist_ as a Cybertronian _._ ” He snarls. “I don’t believe it. I won’t.”

The Knight snarls back, “You would doom your entire planet - turn away from salvation - after you came _here,_ after you _quested_  -”

“I am,” Drift says, “I thought this was what I wanted. But - I didn’t - I didn’t choose to become Drift because I thought I would get here. That I would erase everything. I just - didn’t want to be Deadlock anymore. I still don’t. It doesn’t change the fact that I _was_ ,” he continues. “Whatever absolution - whatever _forgetting_ you’re offering me - it’s not real.” he looks at the Knight, “and it’s not worth leaving the people I love.”

“You think they want you back? Like _this_?” There’s a twist in the Knight’s face as he says the word, that speaks of blood and shame.

His internals squirm, for a moment, thinking of the time he spent, alone in the universe -

But he remembers Ratchet’s outstretched hand, Rodimus’s voice.

“Yes,” He says, “They - they care about me, and that means something.”

“You’re leaving this behind for _them_ ?” The Knight’s face twists with disgust. “For _Hot Rod_?”

Drift’s face twists right back. “ _Rodimus._ And no,” he says, “I’m doing this for myself, because - because the Lost Light showed me I was someone worth giving a damn about already,” he spits, “ _I don’t need you._ ”

\---

There. There _is_ shock in Drift - Not-Drift’s optics.

“What,” Not-Drift starts, catching himself, “I don’t call you _Hot Rod?_ Well, maybe that’s because I hadn’t _realized_ that was the name you _deserve.”_ He says, “I thought you could do _better_ than your many, _many_ mistakes, but now? Now that you’re trying - not just to run away from your _own_ destiny, but to tear me away from _mine_ ? To doom _Cybertron?_ No. You’re not worthy of the title you stole.”

“It’s my _name._ ” Rodimus says, _“_ Drift knows that.”

“ _No!”_ Not-Drift snarls. “Your name is the name you were _forged_ with.”

“No. No, Drift cares - enough to use the name I chose. He’s not -”

“I _care?_ About _you_ and your _name?”_ Drift - _Not-Drift -_ laughs. “I _care_ about the _quest -_ the one that _you’re_ ignoring - and you - you were supposed to be _necessary -_ ”

“No -” he trails off, weakly - he could have been stabbed through the spark - he would _prefer_ that.

“- and you can’t even do _that._ ” Drift smirks, “You really thought I cared about _you_?”

He’s had this nightmare before.

 _(He’d step off the ship to welcome Drift home and Drift would turn to him with the same cutting scorn in his optics that his face is wearing right now, with words that cut the same -_ )  

“I don’t -” he chokes out, “I don’t believe you. You’re not Drift.” He hopes, prays desperately that it’s true.

“You know I am,” he looms over Rodimus, he’s too tall, Drift isn’t this tall - “I feel your fear. You know the truth.”

“ _No._ ” Rodimus says, through gritted teeth.

“ _No?_ ” Not-Drift shouts back at him. “You - you insubordinate - _fool!_ You are not - you were _never_ worthy of even an artifact of _Primus -_ ”

Rodimus resets his audials. “A _what?”_

 _“Don’t_ make me repeat myself!” Not-Drift _snarls,_ but the words are catching up with each other in Rodimus’s processor.

“ _Even_ an artifact of Primus.” Fiery confidence begins to spark in his system again, he leans forward, looking Not-Drift dead in the optics. “Why would you say _that_? Drift worships Primus, the same as I do -”

“I -” There’s fear he sees, fear and shock.

And then someone else speaks.

**“They - they care about me, and that means something.”**

It’s Drift’s voice - not coming from Not-Drift’s mouth, not from inside Rodimus’s head - Rodimus stares around to try and find the source, to find _Drift,_ but it seems to be coming from every direction, from the walls around him. Not-Drift looks around in a panic, muttering about things glitching _again._

 _“_ **_Rodimus.”_ ** Drift’s voice is fierce, insistent - and then there is a burst of static, before - **“ - the Lost Light showed me I was someone worth giving a damn about already.”**

 _That’s_ Drift. Drift is out there, fierce and furious and fighting back against whoever is trying to keep him.

And believing with all of that fierceness that the Lost Light cares about him. Holding on to that.

Rodimus fully intends to prove him right.

Not-Drift looks at him, full of shock and anger - “You hear only -”

“No.” Rodimus says, cutting off whatever lie he was about to spew. “No, _that_ was Drift. _That was Drift._ ” He points an accusatory finger. _“Not. you.”_

“I -”

“You are _not_ Drift.” Rodimus balls his hands into fists, digs his fingers into his palms. “Drift is still out there, and he’s _alive,_ and he’s fighting. _And I’m going to find him._ ”

\---

The Knight’s face twists into a snarl at Drift’s words. “You don’t _need_ me? You fool. There is nothing else you need. If you are too foolish and proud to see it -”

Right now, he thinks, shaking slightly with the effort of standing upright, what he really needs is energon.

“No.” Drift says.

“You would do that?” He stalks toward Drift, optics narrowed, fists clenched. “You’ll refuse your destiny for your _pride_ ,” he spits, “and leave the next ten-thousand generations of unborn to ruin?”

_Liar Liar Liar Liar -_

Drift thinks about the room he woke up in.

“I don’t believe you.” He says, “You - all of you - you don’t care about me - you don’t care about Cybertron -”

“We _made_ you. Cybertron is _ours._ ” The Knight snaps. “You - you can’t defy your destiny forever. ”

Drift cuts off whatever the Knight was about to say next. “Watch me.” He snaps, a smirk on his face.

The Knight hits him.

Drift should have been able to react, to block it, but the Knight had moved so fast it was like he had _blurred_. Drift barely realizes he’s been struck until he tastes the energon from his split lip. He tightens his grip on his sword, takes a step back to put distance between himself and the Knight as he raises the blade.

The Knight barely even seems to notice, preoccupied with his anger. “ _Of course,_ ” he snarls. “ _Of course_ the first Cybertronian to forge a new connection with Vector Sigma is a _selfish - disobedient - brat!_ That is _all_ your species _is!_ ” Rage radiates off of him. “We were wrong to _ever_ think that your _pretense_ at _faith_ might make you _better_ than the rest of them - you, _you_ are the _worst_ of your _fractious, insubordinate,_ **_rebellious_ ** breed!”

Drift spits energon. “Guess you didn’t have me figured out after all.”

The Knight snarls wordlessly, lunging towards Drift  - until he comes to a halt at swordpoint.

“You don’t _deserve_ to wield _that -_ you don’t deserve to _touch_ anything of our making. You don’t deserve to _be_ of our making, you - are - a - _disgrace!_ ”

Drift raises the sword a touch more, until it just rests against the symbol on Not-Rodimus’s chest, right over where Rodimus’s spark would be.

The Knight looks up at Drift, and then he smiles - no, not a true smile, but a twist of lips to expose teeth that promises nothing but pain and wrath. 

\---

“You - _you_ are going to find him?” Not-Drift spits, dropping all pretense. “You - insubordinate fool, you corrupted _speck_ \- you think you can stop this?”

“Watch me.”

“ _We will_ **_never_ ** _let him go.”_ Not-Drift shouts.

“Doesn’t sound like that’s going too well for you.” Rodimus smirks. “Little tip for ya. _Drift is better than you.”_

Not-Drift snarls wordlessly, stalking towards Rodimus and sinking both sets of claws into his chest. “You are _unworthy_ and you will _rot_ here. Drift,” he adds, with a cruel twist of his lips, “will _rot here._ ”

“No -” Rodimus starts, but - it feels like something cold has slipped in where the claws are pressed against him. “ _No._ We’re getting out of here. _Tell me where he is._ ”

“No - no -” Not-Drift turns his head away, seemingly distracted, almost like he’s not talking to Rodimus anymore, “if he will not serve, we will take them all,” with a sudden jerk of his head his optics are back on Rodimus, cutting him to the spark, “we will make them _suffer -_ ”

_The crew._

Rodimus struggles not to let the engine-quaking fear show, but still, Not-Drift’s face is full of vindictive triumph.

“You fool. You’ve failed them all, as you always have. Corrupted, arrogant child - _Hot Rod,_ foolish to the last.” Not-Drift looks down at him with cold optics. “Whatever pleasure you take in your disobedience, know that it will be repaid a thousandfold in pain.”

“Fuck you,” Rodimus mutters.

“Go. Go now to suffer and rot.” Not-Drift says, tossing him aside and stepping back towards the wall. He looks up. “I am done with fools.”

Rodimus turns away as the figure dissolves back into the walls.

He is alone as he runs his fingers over the dents in his chest plate, trying to catch his breath, trying not to remember old wounds.

He _is_ going to find Drift, he thinks, even as he leans heavily against the wall.

_not worthy not worthy not worthy -_

\---

**_Then_ **

“You absolute _idiot -_ ”

Rodimus - still not quite used to that name - only has the briefest moment to feel Drift’s field before he has Drift’s arm around him.

“I can’t believe you did that,”  Drift says, into his neck. “We thought you were -” he chokes himself off.

“What,” Rodimus teases, “no welcome back?”

Drift laughs. “It’s been too long.”

“It really has.” Rodimus says. He hasn’t seen Drift since well before he had gone to try and retrieve the Matrix from the Decepticons, and been lost in space after -

Well. He was back now.

Drift looks over his new, Matrix-altered form. “You got taller.”

“Disappointed you can’t pick me up anymore?”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Drift says, as he tightens his grip around Rodimus and leans back until the very tips of Rodimus’s feet are off the ground.

“Hey! Hey!” Rodimus says, laughing, tightening his grip around Drift in return.

Drift laughs, and Rodimus -

After the pain, he’d felt right in his new frame, more right than he ever had, but this - he’s finally at home with it, here now with Drift.

Drift sets him down, still grinning. “It’s good to have you back, H - no, it’s Rodimus now, isn’t it?” He asks, easy, smiling.

“I - yeah.”

“It suits you,” Drift says, a hand on his shoulder, then tilts his head slightly, looking in his optics intently. “Are you happy? With it, I mean.”

“Yes,” Rodimus says, “I - I really am,” he adds, almost surprised by how true it is, how he feels it resonating all the way through his spark.

Drift taps Rodimus’s autobot badge, just over the where the Matrix had sat, right over Rodimus’s spark, and lets his hand linger just a moment too long, like he’s reassuring himself that the it’s still there, still whole. Rodimus understands the impulse. “Good.” He says, finally, looking up at Rodimus, “I’m glad.”

For a moment, Rodimus wonders if Drift is going to ask something else - he’s gotten enough vague, probing questions about the Matrix over the past weeks - but he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “do you want to grab some energon, catch up?”

“Yeah. That sounds great.” Rodimus says, smiling so hard his face almost hurts, “and I found a new spot near the base, it’s perfect for racing.”

“Alright,” Drift laughs, “we’ll see if that new alt means you can finally beat me, huh?”

“Oh, you’re on - !”

\---

**_Now_ **

“You’re not going to hurt me.” The Knight says, triumphant.

“You’re _not_ Rodimus.”

Metal swirls at the point of his blade, and the symbol reshapes itself into the Autobot badge - Rodimus’s autobrand. The Knight shifts his face into a hurt expression so perfectly reminiscent of Rodimus that there’s a twinge in Drift’s spark.

Drift snorts, sounding more confident than he feels. “Still not Rodimus.” _Rodimus wouldn’t hit me._

“Then why are you still afraid of _your_ own blade?” The Knight asks, mocking. “You do _believe_ it’s _yours_ , don’t you? It’s in _your_ hands.”

“Don’t try me," he snaps. "Tell me how to get out of here. Tell me where Rodimus is.”

“Are you shaking?” The Knight taunts. “You can’t even hold your own blade steady.”

Drift presses the sword into the autobrand hard enough to dent. The Knight laughs.

“I know what’s in your spark. You’ve done everything you can to keep that locked up.” The Knight meets his optics, and Drift can’t look away. “You say you can carry what you’ve done, but you’re still hiding from yourself. _Your spark wants to be a killer._ ”

Drift shakes his head, shakes his head even as his wires quake with the fear that it’s true. As much as he tries to separate himself from who he was when he was Deadlock, he can’t. He carries the weight of his actions as Deadlock, and, just the same, the parts of him that made him Deadlock are still there.  

“I know what you are, _Drift of Rodion._ You know too.”

“No.” Drift shakes his head again.

The Knight laughs. “You do. You shake with the knowledge of it. You’re not going to fight me.” The Knight says, “you’re afraid; afraid to let any of _you_ slip out. I know who you are, and you’re terrified of being what you are.”

“I know who I am.” Drift snarls.

“Oh, I know you do. That’s why you keep it so tightly bottled up, terrified that they’ll understand the truth of you…” He smirks, “or that you’ll hurt them, as you’ve hurt so many before.” He runs a hand along Drift’s sword, even as the point is still digging in to his chest. “Do you still have nightmares of the people you love dying on your blade?”

Nightmares.

Where he watched Wing fall again, hole blasted through his chest, with his own guns hot, his own circuits having triggered the shot.

Where he’d lost himself in battle, turned on the Wreckers, watched Kup and Perceptor die like he’d watched so many other Autobots die at his hands.

Where he’d helplessly watched Deadlock kill his friends, tried to look away only to find himself looking through Deadlock’s optics, trapped, watching himself kill, just like -

Where he’d woken up in a panicked frenzy in the medibay and stilled himself only to find that he’d killed Ratchet, where the cracking of bottled up anger had escalated beyond simply drawing his sword and he’d stained the blade with Ratchet’s blood, where he killed Ratchet in Dead End -

Where he’d let his frustrations go in a training match and found himself covered with Rodimus’s blood, his swords through him, had to watch the glow fade out of terrified optics, where he’d lost himself in the rage of his old nightmares and killed Rodimus in their quarters on the Wreckers’ ship -

He’d woken up and commed Rodimus, once, on the Lost Light, before he fully realized what he was doing, a reflexive need to know that he was alive - he’d regretted it immediately, he was terrified of being in the same room as Rodimus, he couldn’t be there, Drift could hurt him -

Rodimus had shown up at Drift’s door anyway, and Drift had found he couldn’t bear to turn him away. Rodimus had fallen asleep again not fifteen minutes after warming up some energon for Drift and putting an old movie on for them to watch, but he was still there. Optics shuttered, his engine a low hum, his face open, relaxed.

Drift could have killed him with one hand.

He still doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that trust.

“You do. I see it in your optics. You won’t hurt this frame,” Not-Rodimus taunts.

When he’d still been putting his new self together, Rodimus had held out a hand. When the barriers he had built, the ones meant to hold _Drift_ together, to bottle ‘Deadlock’ up, had cracked, Rodimus had _still_ held out a hand.

No matter what, the only time Rodimus had looked terrified of Drift was in Drift’s nightmares.

Drift knows who he is.

(If he didn’t, the reflection in Rodimus’s optics would remind him.)

For all his bravado, the Knight _doesn’t._

There are many more pieces of Drift, even many more pieces that were Deadlock that the Knight clearly does not understand, and Drift suspects he could _never_ understand.

The weapon in his hands, the _rage,_ the _ferocity_ in his spark - it’s the same fierceness that has kept him fighting at Rodimus’s side, at Ratchet’s, at Perceptor’s, at Kup’s - it’s made him able to keep them _safe._

And if Rodimus didn’t need to be scared of it - maybe he doesn’t, either.

He lets his spark burn.

“Tell me the way out of here, or I’ll tear _this frame_ apart.” Drift snarls, feeling the edge of his own fangs against his lower lip.

“You think you can get out of here?” The Knight takes the hand he had slid up the blade and grabs on to Drift’s arm. “You think I won’t hold you here until you fall? You’re _weak,_ and your destiny _will not be denied._ You _will_ go back.”

As Drift tries to yank his arm away, the Knight only tightens his grip, like he’s sinking into every gap in Drift’s plating to hold him back.

Drift feels the press of his sword against the metal of the Knight’s chest.

“You think you can do it? You fool. You never will.”

In the years since he’s left behind the name Deadlock, he’s chosen to try and use all of his warrior’s instincts, any of the anger he wasn’t too afraid to let out, to protect those who needed it, rather than to slaughter those weaker than him.

Maybe it was time he used it to protect himself.

“You don’t even _deserve_ mercy. You will _rot_ here, because you were too -”

Drift shoves his sword through the Knight’s chest.

The optics flicker for a moment, and then the Knight _laughs._ “You really did think that would be enough, didn’t you?” He digs in to Drift’s arm, so it hurts, pulling himself further along the blade until his face is a hand’s breadth away from Drift’s, twisted into a mocking sneer, optics enflamed with rage. “You can’t leave unless _I choose -_ ”

_No._

The way the Knight has twisted Rodimus’s face - the way his grip drags on Drift’s arm - every single moment of his mocking laughter -

There is rage in Drift’s spark, and his vision is crystal clear, and -

It feels like a burst of lightning in his spark, and then there is lightning along his blade, the flare of his spark almost blinding him through the gap in his plating -

(Is this what it feels like, for Rodimus to flame out?)  
  
And the Knight - explodes.

In an instant, there are countless black particulates, like burnt metal, scattering from the point of impact, where Drift’s sword had gone through the Knight’s chest. Drift can feel some of them settling onto his own plating, the rest scattering onto the floor, tracing out the pattern of an explosion.

The stain doesn’t fade away.

Drift feels his legs give out as the rage fades, feels his system try to purge, but there’s nothing to purge.

_Rodimus -_

\---

**_Then_ **

Drift’s hands wrap around Rodimus’s, where they’re wrapped around a training sword.

“One more time?” Rodimus asks, a grin on the corner of his face that Drift can see.

Drift - well, he would be lying if he complained about being asked to stay wrapped around Rodimus’s warm frame, fingers pressed over Rodimus’s. The closeness is comfortable, it reminds him that he has so much Rodimus’s trust, to be this close - his spark glows. Rodimus always runs warm -

_Focus._

But at some point, he’s failing as a teacher.

It’s not just that Rodimus is working from several million years of circuit-coding and frame-memory of fighting with the guns built into his arms and the flames he was forged with, not swords, or the fact that he’s the most distractible person Drift has ever met - it’s not like Drift isn’t a little distracted either, within inches of being able to tangle his fingers with Rodimus’s and hold hands properly, the corner of his cheek just visible -

He’s usually better about staying focused. It’s been years.  
  
No, he can feel that Rodimus has gotten this move. He’s done it correctly the past three times, he doesn’t even need Drift’s guidance.

“Maybe we should try really practicing it. We could go through a sparring routine, like last week.” Drift suggests, “That’s still the best way to make sure you really understand it.”

Rodimus stills - he so very rarely stands _still,_ even here, with Drift holding him, he’s shifting, swaying slightly, one thumb tapping on the hilt of the sword - but now he’s _almost_ still. “Sure we can’t run through it another couple times like this?”

“At some point I’ll start to think I can’t teach you anything.” Drift laughs.

“No, no!” Rodimus insists, turning his head to look back at Drift, earnest. “You’re a good teacher! I like you teaching.”

Drift tries to smile, “But you don’t feel like sparring? I must not have taught you very well.”

He can feel the tension in Rodimus’s frame, and he’s terrified that it’s fear - he’s so close that he should be able to feel it in his field, if it’s there, but if it’s there, Rodimus has it tightly concealed.

But then again, he’s always been good at making sure others don’t pay attention to his fear.

“Do you really want to spar?” Rodimus asks, after a moment.

“Rodimus, if -” I scared you, “it was too much last time, you can find someone else to spar with, you _should_ get real practice at this.”

Drift must have scared him, and he can’t blame Rodimus, if he let some of _that_ slip - who wouldn’t be afraid?

Drift’s so lost in self-recrimination he almost misses Rodimus’s next words. “What? No, of course not.” Drift’s starting to get a little better at seeing through Rodimus’s bravado; this sounds genuine.

“I did knock you around a little bit,” Drift says, trying for a chagrined smile.

“Pff, I held my own.” Which _is_ bravado, but Drift grins anyway. “I just - I didn’t know if you wanted to, again. You seemed a little down, afterwards.”

Drift starts - he hadn’t considered - hadn’t thought that Rodimus would have noticed.

“I know you’ve had to fight a lot of people,” Rodimus adds, his thumb drumming faster on the hilt of the sword, betraying his nerves.

And that - well, isn’t that the understatement of the century, and Rodimus knew it. But it’s not - he knows it’s not about what others would focus on, in his history of bloodshed. It’s the way Rodimus says ‘ _had to’._ He understands. The - the past aside, Rodimus had been there, at his side, and after, in his room, after he’d fought - after he’d _killed_ people who used to be his subordinates, people who had laughed with him, had dragged him off the battlefield when he was injured.

Rodimus had tried to make it easier. He hadn’t always succeeded, but - but he’d made it easier simply because when he was there, Drift knew the person by his side understood how it felt to kill people you cared for because you saw no alternative.

It’s not the same. He knows it’s not the same. But when they sit together in their room, in the dark, afterwards it’s enough for him to trust Rodimus with the fact that sometimes he hates himself for doing it. The others - other Autobots - would see it as another sign that Drift wasn’t really one of them, that he’d never really defected.

But Rodimus understands. Drift can see it in his optics; feel it in his field.

Yeah, he’s had to fight a lot of people.

“And I just - I don’t know. I was worried sparring might be reminding you of that, maybe. But I -” He looks away, shrugs.

“I -” Drift starts, “I guess, It might have? A little bit? But,” It’s easier to say it when he doesn’t have to look Rodimus in the eye, “we should still practice. I’ll be fine. As long as you are?”

“Of course,” Rodimus says, tilting his head towards Drift so Drift can see his grin, and it - it sounds genuine. Feels genuine.

Drift realizes he’s tightened his grip around Rodimus, not wanting to lose his warmth, only when Rodimus moves, shifting to turn around, to face Drift.

He only has a moment to register that his hands are suddenly colder, and then Rodimus, training sword lowered by his side, reaches out, slowly, waiting for Drift’s nod, and takes Drift’s hand, holds it up between them. “Just - you know we’re always on the same team, right?”

Drift laughs, a little hollow, and taps his Autobot badge with his free hand. “Can’t exactly forget that.”

“Not that, I mean - you and me. We’re a team.” He squeezes Drift’s hand. “Yeah?” He grins, “I’m not going anywhere - even if you keep knocking me on my ass.”

“I - yeah. Team.” He squeezes Rodimus’s hand back. Rodimus’s smile could light up the whole ship.

Rodimus’s optics glaze over for a few moments, distracted, and then he refocuses on Drift, “I just - there was this time with Kup where I had a - it’s not important, point is, I think I’ve got a compromise. There are a few training drones down in storage, and I _know_ I can finagle them to work with swords. Let’s go!”

Rodimus doesn’t let go of his hand, and Drift doesn’t even begin to try to pull away.

Eventually, he’ll be better. Eventually, he’ll be able to spar with Rodimus without the same memories - maybe even without his fear getting the better of him. He’ll have to be.

But - it’s Rodimus caring about his ghosts, his fears. Rodimus’s hand clasped on his, and the way Rodimus says _team_ , stay warm in his spark as he watches Rodimus swing his sword perfectly in the move Drift had taught him, knocking down the training drone.

Rodimus grins at him, and Drift thinks he couldn’t ask for anyone better to be at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "It's time to stop running" line is directly from Drift's internal monologue in Empire of Stone - ref here! http://squireofgeekdom.tumblr.com/post/182264012949/chapter-7-references


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on Meet in the Middle: When Drift realizes that taking the Knight’s offer of absolution would require leaving his friends, who never saw him as needing absolution anyway, he turns down the offer. Even when threatened with his past, and the idea that his friends all have reason to fear him, Drift hears Rodimus’s voice and fights off the Knight, and then collapses from what he’s done (and from being really, seriously starving)
> 
> Rodimus is confronted by another Drift, one who looks closer to the old Deadlock frame, who claims that he does need to stay, and Rodimus needs to leave. When cutting at Rodimus’s insecurities about his relationship with Drift, the doppelganger gives himself away, and hearing Drift’s voice, and remembering the first time he met Drift as Rodimus, Rodimus gathers the strength to walk away.
> 
> Chapter songs: The Greater Good - Styx; Illusion - VNV Nation; Dual Terminator - Marco Beltrami; Forces of the Unseen - Cloud Cult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Here we are, over 60k, and this is now officially the longest fanfic I have ever written!! 
> 
> There's some up-close-and-personal violence this chapter that I wanted to give you a heads up for, as well as a 'getting a panic on' scene that's described in some detail. Notes on where to skip are in the end notes.

The wall is cold against his plating.

He tries to focus on the memory, reuniting with Drift. He tries to focus on the echo of Drift’s hands - Drift’s real hands - against his plating, instead of the smooth wall; tries to focus on the warmth of Drift’s hug, of his smile.

Drift knows his name.

“ _It suits you.”_

He pushes off the wall, takes stumbling steps forward.

_You can do this. You have to do this._

He _is_ going to find Drift.

The growing light in the tunnel reflects off the smooth metal walls, for a moment he thinks he sees white.

_Drift -!_

Nothing is there.

_Nothing -_

_‘You really thought I cared about you?’_

Not-Drift. _Not. Drift._

_‘You really thought_

_I cared_

_about_ you?’

_abandoned him didn’t listen failed not worthy deserve it_

He stumbles, knee hitting the wall with a loud clang.

Something in his systems isn’t running right. He lets himself slip down the wall, landing on his knees.

_Get up. You have to get up._

He doesn’t.

A shadow falls over him.

He knows that shadow; and the pits of his engine scream _run!_

He doesn’t.

\---

_Get up._

His legs tremble as he tries to force them to push himself upright, up from where he had fallen to his knees. His systems had reset, they had stopped trying to purge, but that doesn’t change the way his throat feels tight.

He tries to move his hands, at least, unwrapping one from where it’s clenched painfully around the hilt of his sword. He pushes away the charred metal grains of the doppelganger from his thighs; diggs his thumbs in where grains had wedged themself into his paintwork with the force of the explosion.

_Get up._

He dismisses another suite of urgent low-fuel warnings and finally, finally forces his legs to move himself upright.

Whatever energy the fear and anger had given him, it’s pouring out of him in a torrent, leaving him shuddering and cold.

One step forward, then the next.

He can get out of here. He _will_ get out of here.

His spark believes it.

The rest of him is less cooperative; his legs shake with each step he takes.

He hasn’t been this fuel-deprived in millenia. He doesn’t even know if he could drink a cube now, his internals feel chill and quavering.

His legs are so heavy. He stops taking full steps, instead inching his feet along, tires rolling slightly against the smooth metal. Without even thinking about it, he leans most of his weight against the wall, dragging his shoulder along.

He tries his radio again, in vain hope, but there’s no answer to the signal. He can only hope that whatever this place is is suppressing the signal.

(Otherwise, he’s alone.)

The hall is so dark, now.

His legs stop moving.

He can rest. For a moment, he can rest. Thirty seconds.

His legs won’t stop shaking, and then his right leg gives out, crumples under him, and he slides against the wall to the floor.

For how slow the fall is, it still feels as though it knocks the wind out of him.

_Okay. Okay. You can get up in a minute. Rest._

_You’ve survived worse._

But creeping uncertainty in the back of his processor, cold and slick, says that he _physically_ can’t make it much further without fuel, that even if he keeps going, there’s no guarantee he’ll find someone with fuel in time.

But he has to try.

Just another minute, then he can get up.

“Well, you look like crap.” Ratchet’s voice says.

For a moment, he doesn’t think. For a moment, he smiles, and _‘still look better than you, you tin can bastard,_ ’ is on the tip of his tongue.

And then he turns his head, and Ratchet’s helm is forming out of the wall, the reverse of the way the first fake Rodimus had melted away.

Drift lets out an exhausted peal of laughter. “Really? You’re going to have to do better than _that_ if you want to convince me you’re real.” He lets his chin rest back against his own chest, not even bothering to look up at the fake Ratchet as he takes shape and steps out of the wall. “You’re another fake.”

“Yeah, _no shit,_ I know.”

_\---_

No. Don’t run. _You don’t run._

Rodimus looks up into Megatron’s face and laughs. “If you’re trying to trick me,” he says, digging his fingertips into the wall to lever himself upright, “you could at least _not_ pick someone I _know_ isn’t here.”

“ _You_ .” His voice is how Rodimus remembers it at its worst, the way it feels like it’s rattling through his plating, like it could tear through him if Megatron were the _slightest_ bit louder.

“Yeah, me,” Rodimus looks away, determinately fixing his eyes on the wall to make it seem like he’s not just avoiding Megatron - Not-Megatron’s - gaze. He pulls a cube of energon from out of his subspace - for the added layer of apparent nonchalance, and because he _is_ hungry - and drinks. “Whatever. You’re made of grey goo anyway, so save it for someone who cares.” He downs the cube.

“If you know I am not real,” not-Megatron rumbles, “then why are you afraid?”

“ _I’m not afraid_.”

“You are,” he says. “Listen to yourself.”

“I’m not afraid of Megatron.”

“Oh,” he says, “you _are_ . You can hide it under habit and bravado, but you _are_.” Red eyes bore into him, even as he tries to look away. “You are very brave.” he adds, with a step towards Rodimus, staring down at him.

It’s not Megatron, but his steps still make the same heavy _thud_ , still feel like they shake the room.

“But not”

_thud_

“brave”

_thud_

“enough.”

Rodimus can’t breathe.

_\---_

Drift can see Not-Ratchet standing over him out of the corner of his eye, even as he refuses to turn his head to look at him.

With a sigh, Not-Ratchet kneels down next to him. “C’mon, up you get,”

Drift laughs, “If you - if you think I’m just going to walk back _there_ with you, after all that -”

“What?” Not-Ratchet actually sounds confused, and Drift finally looks over at him to see a frown on his face. “Back - no, I’m not trying to take you back there, why would I - look,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, it’s such a Ratchet expression that it hurts Drift’s spark, _how dare they -_ “We’re not like the - I’m not - I’m not what you think I am. I’m here to _help_ you.”

“You really expect me to believe that?” Drift stares at him, not even trying to hide his disbelief.

“Well, if you’d rather sit here on the floor and feel sorry for yourself until you damn well die -”

“What the hell do you even want?” Drift snaps, “if you aren’t trying to take me back there - what the hell is this? And don’t just say ‘help’, that’s bu-”

Ratchet - Not-Ratchet - throws up his hands. “I’m trying to get you to some goddamn _food._ You can believe me or not, but I’m not seeing any _better_ options popping up for you.”

\---

Can’t see anything but Megatron looming over him engine screaming _run_ nowhere to go nowhere to look but at a purple brand above cannon on his arm on his arm _run run run don’t die can’t die run_ **_run -_ **

He has both arms braced over his chest when he comes back to himself, Megatron staring at him, no longer looming, badge on his chest now red, cannon still locked on his arm like an executioner’s blade resting on Rodimus’s neck.

“That,” he says, “is all it takes to show your fear.”

Rodimus chucks the empty cube in his general direction and rolls his optics.

“But do you know what you are even more afraid of?”

“Why do I have the feeling you’re going to _tell_ me even if I don’t _ask_?” Rodimus mutters.

“You _know_ ,” he says, “even here, even now, this - simulacra of him, with just a fraction of who he is, what you _remember_ of him -”

“Gonna come to a point anytime soon?” he snaps, not even thinking.

“- I am _better_ than you. And you know it,” he says, “Even _fake,_ I am the better leader.”

“ _No._ ”

“You can’t do anything yourself, you know it, and your crew knows it,” Megatron says, his shadow on the wall towering over Rodimus. “What have you even _achieved_ ? What,” he continues, “ _are_ you, but a broken boy who’s cowed by shadows?”

No rebuttal comes to Rodimus’s voice.

“You’ve let your crew down, left them in danger, and none of them would even be surprised.”

“Shut up,” he says, finally, braced against the wall. “ _You’re_ the one that left. _You left us._ You - you can’t even _say_ that - after you let them -”

“And yet,” Megatron smirks. “I _am_ the better Captain. You know that.”

His mouth twists in a weak snarl. “ _Fuck you._ ”

\---

“You’re trying to - what?” As he asks the question, one of the emergency fuel alerts he’s dismissed pops back up again. He dismisses it again with a halfhearted grimace.

“Food, I’m trying to get you to _food -_ your fuel isn’t so low that you’re _delirious,_ are you? Your audials are still on?”

“You’re - why would you possibly be -”

“Because I’m trying to _help_ \- “

“There’s no way you’re trying to -”

“Oh for crying out - I’m not having this conversation with a lump.” He stands back up from where he was kneeling. “Get up. Let me help you up.”

Drift glares at him, and then digs his fingers into the wall, bracing himself, pushing himself upright. He’s not going to let this fake Ratchet _touch_ him.

As he stands, not-Ratchet huffs, but - it seems like the tunnel is even a little brighter.

“So?” Drift asks, folding his arms to hide how they’re shaking. “Answer my question: why am I supposed to believe you’re trying to ‘help’ me?”

Not-Ratchet sighs and rolls his optics. “C’mon, let’s walk and talk - we can at least get you a little closer to food.”

“You’re not telling me they have the West Wing in this place…” Drift mutters, rolling his optics.

“Have the what?” Ratchet looks back at him, resetting his optics, apparently confused.

Well, they really _hadn’t_ picked up on all the memories. He supposes he should be grateful. “Nevermind. Quit stalling.” He says, as he follows not-Ratchet down the hall - he _is_ walking the same way that Drift had been going, in any case.

“Look - Wrath told you about the five Knights, right?” Drift nods. “Yeah, well that _actually_ wasn’t complete horseshit, amazingly. You’ve met three - well, you’ve met avatars of three of them. I’m a - a representative of the fourth - or, well, this is -” he gestures at the false Ratchet’s frame, “my avatar. Not me per se.”

“You’re a -” Drift’s processor struggles to keep up.

“You can think of me as a - a squire, if it helps. The Judge would have taken an avatar himself, but that would have drawn too much attention. This may be -” he frowns, “well, hopefully we get you to food first.”

“So you’re an avatar of -” he runs through the list in his processor, “Doubt/Judgement - Epistemus? Or -” he shakes his head, his processor’s running slow for the lack of fuel - “the replacement for Epistemus.”

“An avatar of a _representative_ of ‘Epistemus’s replacement, yes. And yeah, you are in the land of multilayered horseshit, you get used to it eventually. Try and keep up.”

“So if you - the Judge - if he’s not after - what the rest of them are after,” Not-Ratchet snorts at that, “then what the hell _do_ you want?”

\---

“Is that all?” Not-Megatron asks, skeptical, almost disappointed.

“You want me to say it louder? **_Fuck you._ ** ”

“You have no argument?” He stares at Rodimus. “Of course you don’t. Optimus Prime found Cyberutopia, not you. Completing your quest? You can’t find the Knights even when dropped on their home planet.”

 _He’s right_ whispers the voice in the back of his processor, _you’re a failure, you’re not worthy, he could have -_

“You can’t even _find_ the _one thing_ you turned away from the Knights _for.”_

“I’m going to find -”

“You keep saying you will,” he says, taking a step closer, again, that dull _thud_ , “and yet - you’re no closer to Drift than the Knights, _are you_?”

“I _am_ closer to Drift,” Rodimus snaps back. “If I wasn’t, _you_ wouldn’t be here still trying to _stop me._ ”

“Stop you?” Not-Megatron almost - chuckles, a low rumble. “If _I_ was trying to get Deadlock back, do you have any doubt that I would be able to?”

 **_“FUCK you!_ ** ” Rodimus yells. “ _Fuck you._ His name’s _Drift._ ”

“And you -” a step closer, another shuddering _thud,_ “think you know that? You think you have a say?”

 _“No!_ ” Rodimus shouts back, leaning up into Megatron’s face, _he’s not afraid, “_ I _know_ **_he_ ** _does._ ”

And Megatron closes one hand around his throat.

\---

He looks at Drift for a moment, and there is something there, some regret or sadness that scares Drift, down to his spark. Then he looks away. “I want to _help_ you.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because right now, you’re what’s standing in the way of them going forward. And if they -” he shakes his head. “Look, if you pass out here from lack of fuel, they can just fucking _roll_ you back in there, and us Bailiffs can only do so much without tipping the Judge’s hand, so can we please focus on getting you to -”

“Wait - Bailiffs - you mean -” he focuses on his memories of the chamber, “you mean the big guards, they really _were_ trying to help me escape?”

“Dammit, were they that obvious? I _told_ Judge that I’m a better actor than those three, but my brothers _always -_ ”

“You’re one of -” he pictures the taller and broader of the strange organics that had been guarding him, and then looks back at Not-Ratchet, “that’s what you -”

“Yes yes, obviously.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“There’s no need to sound so _horrified_ about it, for fuck’s sake.” He almost sounds hurt. “Can we just keep moving, please? I mean, if you don’t _want_ fuel -”

“Why didn’t you just bring me energon if it’s so important to you?” Drift rolls his optics.

Not-Ratchet frowns. “‘Cause if the others figure out what’s actually going on here, they’ll shut this avatar down. If I was _carrying_ the fuel, that’d just mean a lot of energon all over the - all over. If they shut me down now, at least I got you pointed in the right direction.” He shrugs. “It’s a right up here, by the way. Almost there.”

When he turns, Drift half expects to be facing the chamber he had first escaped, but that’s not what he sees. Instead, the smooth metal of the wall cuts off, becoming into something different, an actual room, with rivets in the plates of the wall, clearly different. The corridor brightens a little more after he steps off the smooth metal floor and into this room. Not-Ratchet stands in the doorway, still in the corridor, and gestures towards a crate. Drift kneels down beside it and pulls it open to find cubes of energon.

“Where did this come from?” He asks, as though his arms aren’t shaking with weakness, as though even the faintest smell of the energon, leaking through the sealant, isn’t tearing at him.

“Oh for -” Not-Ratchet tosses his hands in the air, he sounds just as exasperated as Ratchet ever has, “that cannot _possibly_ be what you’re worried about right now. Just _drink_ some.”

Drift looks at him, still wary. “And this is really energon?”

“You think it’s - look, I’d do the whole ‘drink from it first to show you it’s not poisoned’, but this construct can’t really _process_ any meaningful amount of energon, it’s not like it has actual internals -” to illustrate, he turns Ratchet’s arm into an undifferentiated mass of silver goo, the same thing that had melted back into the walls, and the same thing that, Drift realizes, had bled out of the previous construct and sunk into his arms like claws, “- and energon would disagree with my _actual_ body anyway, it’s mostly organic, like you saw. But,” he adds, “if I was trying to drag your unconscious body back to the activation chamber, it’d be a lot more efficient to just wait until you pass out from hunger.”

“I can last longer than this,” Drift says, he knows it’s true, knows it well.

“Not in any kind of decent _state_ you can’t!” he shouts, and then pinches the bridge of his nose. “For the love of - will you just _eat_ something.”

He sounds _so_ much like Ratchet. Drift has to fight back a grin.

Maybe that’s the straw that tips him over from resisting his hunger into actually taking a cube.

It tastes like energon - well, with how hungry he is, it tastes like the best energon _ever_ \- and none of his systems register obviously harmful components, at least not immediately.

“Now drink it _slowly,”_ Ratchet grumbles, sitting down just outside the door so he’s still on eye level with Drift, “or your system could reject the fuel.”

Drift rolls his eyes, _like he didn’t know how to drink fuel when he’d been hungry_ . “How come _you_ got the most accurate fake of the lot?” He mutters, almost amused.

“Because I’m not trying to _fight_ it at the same time.” Not-Ratchet says, and Drift looks around, startled. “What? I’m trying to help you, which is what Ratchet would want to do. The others - well, they weren’t, and that’s not what your friends would have wanted.”

And Drift -

He knows it’s true, of course he does. But after everything today, all the faces he’s seen twisted -

Not-Ratchet must have noticed his reaction - he turns to look at Drift, slightly surprised, frowning, even. “We can only pull from surface thoughts, but it’s not difficult to get _that_ much for the program.”

“Wait - what do you mean, ‘surface thoughts’?”

“They can’t just do a search on your damn brain, obviously, how do you think y’all have managed to get around the last three? They can only read what’s actively running through your mind - and just when you’re on the surface, not down here, thank fuck, or it’d all be well and truly fucked.”

Drift restes his optics. “So, when you say -”

“Yes, they can only read your _surface_ thoughts while you’re on the _surface_ , hah hah.”    

Drift considers. “Wait - but the one fake - he knew about _Nyon._ That wasn’t - you - they must have had to search deeper for that.”

Not-Ratchet looks - puzzled. “No, he - Rodimus - thought of Nyon several times on the surface. Dwelled on it, even. That’s why they were able to - to answer your question.”

_Rodimus -_

Not-Ratchet frowns, like he’s trying to recall something. “Isn’t that why he came? It’s all fuzzy, with the way the system works, we don’t really get a lot of context -”

He might as well have jabbed a scalpel through the gap in Drift’s plating and stabbed him in the spark.

He wasn’t the only one who had absolution to seek.

He should have known better.

Rodimus _trusted_ him -

“Drift?”

He tries to steady himself, breathe in, breathe out.

“Here, your systems are still all out of order, you still need fuel. There’s more in the crate. Pull it over here, you can sit in the corridor.”

Drift pulls the crate over, just outside the threshold. Not-Ratchet reaches in and hands Drift a cube, and Drift takes it, feeling the gratitude of his internals. He sits down in the corridor, the light softening, and Ratchet - Not-Ratchet - nods approvingly.

He wishes this were real.

He wishes -

“What - the other fake Ratchet said. About -” he hesitates, and Not-Ratchet looks at him. Drift _can’t_ meet his optics, “If you - they - were taking surface thoughts - that - what he said, about - thinking about each other the same way -” he tilts the energon cube back and forth in his hands, worried he’ll crack it accidentally with how tight his grip is, “was that true?”

He feels stupid and cowardly asking it; there’s no reason he should trust this fake any more than the other, but -

“Well _yeah_ ,” Not-Ratchet says, “obviously, or that would’ve been a fairly stupid giveaway. Granted, Judge always says Wisdom’s not as -”

Drift isn’t paying attention, there’s a sudden warmth running through his systems, warmth that has nothing to do with the energon and his systems kicking back online.

 _Amica_ **_Endura_ ** _!_

He tilts his head back and laughs, genuine and joyful, he can’t help himself - even if this could just be another lie, it’s - it’s one bright spark in all of this.

“ - but you don’t have to trust me, I suppose you can ask him when -” Not-Ratchet goes quiet. It takes a moment for Drift to realize it, but when he does he looks back.  There’s unexpected sadness on the double’s face, he’s looking at Drift, but not quite focusing on him .

When Not-Ratchet notices Drift looking back, he moves Ratchet’s face into a brief, tight smile. “We picked this - frame, to copy, because we thought it might help. Well, at least, I thought - a friendly face, and all.” He looks away,” “We had - but, well, right after - yeah. So - this one.” Not-Ratchet looks back at him.

“A friendly face.” He can’t help but let the edge of a smile onto his face.

“What?”

“I just -” he laughs, and takes another drink of energon, “guess that not many people would think of Ratchet that way. But - yeah. Yeah.”

Not-Ratchet stares at him for a long moment. “I -” he shakes his head, “we don’t have - what is it - _elective_ kinship here. So - uh - _Amica Endurae_ \- I don’t really understand it, but,” he tilts his head slightly, his gaze searching, uncertain, “- you really care about him, don’t you?”

Drift’s face softens into a smile, all the way up to his optics, without even considering it. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And there’s that same sadness, that same - sorrow, almost regret. It guts Drift to see it, because those could be Ratchet’s optics, and he doesn’t know _why_ it’s there. And then Not-Ratchet nods. He looks down at the cubes of energon in front of them. “I’m sorry.” He says, softly, towards the cubes.

Something drops, runs cold in his internals. “What do you mean, _you’re sorry?_ ”

Not-Ratchet - twitches. “I -” he sighs, “you’ve been through enough -”

Every cable is like ice. “ _Where’s Ratchet?_ ” Not-Ratchet only looks at him. “If you can read -” Drift starts, almost frantic, “if they can read surface thoughts when people are on the surface - do you know where Ratchet is?”

Not-Ratchet frowns, not quite looking at him.

“ _Tell me._ ” Drift snarls.

“He’s not on the surface.” Not-Ratchet says, grudgingly.

Drift glares at him, “ _Why_ isn’t he on the surface?”

“You really think they - you think _he_ didn’t look for you, of -”

“No. It’s not that,” he says, even as he feels a little glow of warmth in his spark at the confirmation that yes, yes, someone had looked for him, _Ratchet_ looked for him. “You’re not telling me something.”

“Look, just - you need to focus on refueling. Then - then -” he’s clearly struggling for words, “you can find Ratchet, we can get you back to everyone - just, please, refuel, for crying out loud, you can’t be at better than thirteen percent.”

Drift knows too well to not eat when he can, and he takes a drink of a third cube. Now, not distracted by the edge of his hunger, he can taste it better, and -

“ _This is medical grade._ ”

“What?” Not-Ratchet asks, startled. “Is it the wrong kind? Look, I already told you, I can’t actually drink the stuff, I don’t know the -”

“Where did you _get. this._ ”

“Is that really -”

“You don’t drink energon. _Where did you get this?_ ” Drift stands up in a few quick moments, his limbs finally starting to move at normal speed. “Medics - Ratchet - would carry medical grade.”

“Listen -” Not-Ratchet starts, optics nervous and overbright.

“ _What did you do to him.”_

\---

Rodimus can feel his spoiler scrape along the wall, feel slivers of metal peeled away as Megatron lifts him by his throat, drags him up the wall with no effort at all, his hand is around his throat his gun is right there _Rodimus can’t breathe -_

Megatron is yelling something and it’s all a roar in Rodimus’s processor, drowning every last thought that isn’t _going to die going to die going to die_

His hands are scrabbling - not against Megatron’s hand, not at his throat, but at his chest, trying desperately to protect it from the blast he knows his coming, the blast he can already feel tearing him apart, burning -

\- _no Matrix now no_ -

space is cold so cold still burning _going to die -_

(grey frame looming - red eyes burning in fire - staring down the broken barrel of his cannon - voice shouting - _everywhere everywhere_ **_nowhere safe_ ** )

run - can’t run -

_\- die going to die_

\---

“I haven’t -” Not-Ratchet looks nervously at Drift’s glare.

“I swear, if you’ve hurt him -”

“He hasn’t been _hurt!_ ”

“Then _what have you_ **_done?_ ** _”_

Not-Ratchet just looks at him. Finally, he sighs. “They’re moving ahead without you,”

The brightening of the corridors seems suddenly ominous.

“What do you mean, _they’re moving ahead without -_ without -  I thought they ‘needed’ me to - connect to Vector Sigma, or - ?”

“You have the strongest connection - that they’d use, anyway.” Not-Ratchet looks around nervously. “Listen - if this avatar gets noticed, I’ll be shut down, and then we’ll be up shit creek. I’m trying not to trip any alarms, here.”

“By not talking?”

“You have no idea.” He sighs. “Let’s just say they’re going for quantity over quality.”

“You mean -”

“They took the crew that came looking for you.”

“They -” _the_ crew - _they - how many of them came looking for me?_ He thinks, with sudden warmth, but _-_ no, he can’t deal with that right now. “Where are they? _What are you doing to them?_ ”

Not-Ratchet looks at him.

Something clicks into place. “They’re putting them in _there?_ ”

Not-Ratchet doesn’t meet his eyes. “Not all of them, but -”

“They’re going to -” Drift puts one hand on his sword, “ _I have to go back there._ ”

“No!” Not-Ratchet holds up a hand. “If you go back there now, they’ll just put _you_ in there. At least this way is slower.”

“ _Slower!?”_ Ratchet - Rodimus - suffering for _longer,_ in a nightmare -

“You need backup. There are still -”

Drift is barely listening, his processor is whirling, panicking, “Ratchet - Rodimus - they’re forged - does that mean -”

“Listen to me. _Listen to me.”_ Not-Ratchet waits, one hand outstretched, until Drift is looking at him. “What matters is if we can stop them, everyone will -” There’s that sudden rush of - regret? sadness? Again. “It will all be okay.”

“I don’t care!” Drift shouts, knocking Not-Ratchet’s hand aside. “ _Tell me where my friends are!_ ”

\---

**_I’m going to die!_ **

Rodimus’s vision is starting to cloud from lack of oxygen, but he can still see the gleam of light off the silver walls, the red of Megatron’s optics boring into him -

 _Not-Megatron_ **_Not_ ** _-Megatron -_

He reaches up, finally, to scrabble and pry at Not-Megatron’s fingers.

 _This isn’t even_ real -

But the strength in the hands he’s fighting is real, he struggles to gasp in a desperate breath to keep his servos moving -

\- _to die -_

“Is that really _all_ you can do?” Megatron sneers at him. “You fail to protect your crew - that I expected, but you cannot even _defend_ yourself?”

A _fucking_ grey goo double is going to kill him - he is going to die here - going to die here without -

Drift is somewhere here, trapped, hurt - ?

\- they threatened his _crew._  

_No._

He grabs hold of Not-Megatron’s smallest finger and _yanks_ it back, but Not-Megatron doesn’t so much as grimace -

\- grey goo doesn’t need to be wired up with Cybertronian nervecircuits, _fuck_ -

_\- nothing you can do nothing going to die -_

**_No._ **

He is _not_ leaving Drift in this silver _hellhole,_ he’s not leaving _any_ of his crew - certainly not to _this_.

Not-Megatron’s finger simply slips out of his grip and rematerializes with the other four, holding Rodimus’s throat.

“Pathetic. A sparkling could have done better,” Not-Megatron says. “You think they will even want you back like _this_? You think Deadlock -”

“His - na -” Rodimus gasps.

“ _What_ was that?”

“His - name - is -” Rodimus chokes out, “- _Drift._ ”

 _Primus_ , Drift might hate him - and he can even see Not-Drift’s optics stabbing into him like ice as he thinks of it - but he won’t leave him to this. He won’t let him down again.

He is going to see Drift again. Even if Drift hates him - Rodimus is going to see him again. He is going to find him.

He made a _promise_.

Not-Megatron leans closer, red optics drilling in to him. “You. You are still so afraid. You still _remember -”_ and in the briefest of moments, he has switched the hand that is holding Rodimus by the throat, in order to brace his cannon against Rodimus’s chest, and his last word arrives on a delay, garbled by the roaring static consuming Rodimus’s processor, “ _th - i - s.”_

Megatron doesn’t fire, but he reaches his hand to dig his fingertips, suddenly claw like, into Rodimus’s plating, tearing, Rodimus is going to shatter at -

\- any -

\- moment -

Not-Megatron’s words are broken by static. “ - st - il - l  af - af - ra - aid - - sc - a -ar ed - o -”

And one clear circuit in his processor says: yes.

He is scared. He is _fucking terrified._

_And he has been before._

And he had

_fucking_

**_survived._ **

When he had snapped or hid or joked? He had _still. survived._

Fuck, he had given Megatron _back_ that damn cannon, even with the voice, distant, in the back of his processor, _screaming_.

If he could do that? He could do anything.

He's done being scared.

No more.

This isn’t Megatron.

He is going to find Drift; this _shit_ fake isn’t going to _stop him._

 _I’ve been scared_ **_enough_ ** _._

**_No. More._ **

He looks up to meet Not-Megatron’s optics just in time to hear him say - “-at are you going to do, _Hot Rod?_ ”

He may not be able to break Not-Megatron.

But he knows the temperatures metals melt at.

\---

Not-Ratchet goes very still.

After a moment, he starts. “You’re right. Ratchet and - some of the others were taken to the - the ‘chamber’ - they were being taken to the chamber just before - before I was able to construct this,” he gestures down at the Ratchet doppelganger. “They’ll have them set up by now, that’s why -”

“The others - who - _Rodimus?_ ”

Not-Ratchet smiles at that. “No. No, he’s still - a thorn in their side. He’s still looking for you.”

Drift leans back against the wall with a broken gasp of relief.

“He got separated from the others, and he’s deep enough in the inner workings that they haven’t tried to _physically_ drag him out just yet,” he says. Trying the same game as with you, except they’re not trying to get him to stay, if you get me.”

“ _Where?_ ”

“I can point you in the right direction, but he’s - a ways away. My brother’s -” he frowns, “with him now. He’ll be alright.” He adds.

Drift believes it. He trusts Rodimus to always, always come out alive, to come back. “You said Ratchet - Ratchet and _some_ of the others - what -”

“Not all of them had the right connection to -” he waves a hand, “- something like that. The rest of them - they put them in the cells. They should be -” he doesn’t quite meet Drift’s eyes, “they’ll be okay.”

“And the others - the ones in the chamber - they’re - they’re - it’s the same thing as what I -” that nightmare, that - he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about the others in their own nightmares, some _wrong_ version of himself telling Ratchet that everything is okay -

“Not exactly, but -” Not-Ratchet frowns “- yeah, the same idea.”

“What’s going to happen to them? If they don’t -” _wake up like I did._

Something runs cold through his systems. He presses an arm against his chest, covering the wound over his spark.

He doesn’t want Ratchet - he doesn’t want any of them to wake up like that.

“The fuel,” he starts, “their subspaces - they were emptied like mine, that’s where -”

“Yes.” Not-Ratchet says, looking down at the crate. “I’m sorry.”

Drift tightens his grip on the cube.

“Don’t be stupid. You know they’d give this to you in a heartbeat if they were here.”

Drift frowns, but not drinking won’t do anything to help his friends, and he knows better than to let himself go hungry for pride. He finishes the cube and takes another.

“And then?” Drift asks, his voice tight.

“Then what?”

“Then - do they - restore Cybertron, or - whatever they were trying to sell me on.” Drift huffs, “I’m surprised _you’re_ not.”

“Don’t tell me you _bought_ all that.”

“I don’t know _what_ to believe,” Drift snaps. “If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been sold on about half a dozen stories today.”

Not-Ratchet snorts. “C’mon. This old tin can tells you you’re full of shit every other week, but you let yourself get rattled by some empty suits? I thought you were more pigheaded than that.”

Drift stares at him.

\---

Rodimus _ignites._

He burns, burns with a fury that makes him feel alive as much as it makes him ache, burns hot enough that the hand around his throat, the hand on his chest - melt away, as Megatron staggers back.

Rodimus lands on the ground on one knee, still wreathed in flames, and rises to his feet before Megatron - Not-Megatron - has a chance to take even one step closer.

“Get out of my way.” Rodimus snarls. “I’m going to find Drift.”

“And what makes you think you can?” Not-Megatron’s hands reform as he stares at Rodimus. “You think I will _cow_ from a few flames? From -”

Rodimus _screams._

And opens fire.

If it were really Megatron, his chest plating wouldn’t tear and melt away under the force of his guns, but it does. Rodimus screams, firing through his own flames, firing until he feels his guns red hot against his wrists, firing until Megatron is on his knees, until he has to lower his arms to keep his aim at Megatron’s chest, as his gunfire shreds the frame, as silver metal bleeds away, firing until Megatron falls to the ground and Rodimus stands over him firing down into his chest until anywhere there might have been a spark casing is gone, until red optics flicker and fritz -

Rodimus is still burning.

He lets it go.

He falls to his knees.

\---

“Fine! I don’t believe any of it. Then _what?_ What is it? Or is _that_ something you can’t tell me either.” Drift snaps, feeling, somehow, more himself as he does it.

Not-Ratchet huffs. “It’s not something they’re doing out of the ‘goodness’ of their ‘hearts’ to ‘save Cybertron’, that’s for sure.”

Drift looks at him. “Guess your program got the ‘air quotes’, huh?”

Not-Ratchet looks at his hands. “Oh. _Huh._ ”

As Not-Ratchet contemplates his own hands, Drift pieces together what he’s heard. “But - what you said about the connection - that’s to Vector Sigma - they really are trying to use it.”

Not-Ratchet looks down, and nods.

“What happens to them? What would have happened to me if I hadn’t woken up?” He keeps his arm braced over his chest as he asks.

“I don’t know.” Not-Ratchet says. “I don’t think it would kill them. They said it wouldn’t, but - I don’t know if they were lying. I don’t even know if they knew what they were doing.”

 _They could_ die.

“I have to stop it.” Drift says, reaching for the hilts of two swords that aren’t there.

“You already are.”

Drift resets his audials. “ _What_?”

“This - all of this -” he gestures at the smooth silver walls, “it’s part of their machine. They had to reengineer the _planet_ to do this. And you? You - and Rodimus - you’re - you’re grains of sand in the microchip.”

“They can’t turn it on while we’re in - this?”

Not-Ratchet nods.

“But -” a whole _planet?_ “ -they must have been working on this for - “

“Longer than you’d guess.”

Drift stares at him. “What is it all _for_?”

He sighs. “You remember the room you woke up in?”

Drift frowns, thinking back to the slab he had lay on, staring up at the rows and rows of - “Oh.”

Not-Ratchet nods again.

Drift snorts. “I’m having the weirdest sense of deja vu.”

“What?”

“Ah. You must not have gotten that memory,” Drift says. “And you - you and the Judge, if you don’t want them to do this, what _do_ you want?”

“That’s -” he shakes his head, “- not important.” He looks directly at Drift. “What’s important is what _you_ want.”

\---

“Wh-at are you going to do _now?_ ”

If - _that_ had really been anything other than a cleverly arranged pile of grey goo, Rodimus wouldn’t be able to hear that voice. No one could be alive and speaking with the place that held their spark melted down to so much nothing.

But he _is_ hearing that voice.

“Is that all?” Not-Megatron asks. “All to sit here and wallow on your knees?”

“Fuck _off_.” Rodimus pushes himself upright.

Megatron smiles, a smile that diverges at the last second to be a smirk. “What now?”

“Now I _fucking find Drift,”_ Rodimus snarls. “And it’s Rodimus,” he adds, spitting the words. “Not Hot Rod. _Rodimus._ ”

\---

**Then**

“Rewind’s recording farewell messages,” Rodimus says, “if you’ve got something left to say.”

“What?” Megatron looks up at him; he’s sitting against the wall, where he’d been staring at a clunky phone in his hands.

Rodimus jerks his head towards the phone. “Looked like you wanted to talk to someone, and with communications shut down -” he shrugs. “He says they’ll find a way to get the messages out. Brainstorm’ll magic something.”

“And you?”

“Huh?”

“Are you leaving a ‘farewell message’?”

“Yeah, to tell the universe exactly how they can melt down whatever’s left of my frame after this and use it to _kill Getaway_ **_._ ** ” He looks away, and then back at Megatron.

“Were you surprised?” Megatron asks.

“That Getaway is an enormous steaming shitstain of a bot? Uh, no, he literally tried to get Tailgate killed, not a _huge_ shocker.” Rodimus takes a step back, leaning against the wall. “The rest of the crew? I have no idea what he did, or…” he sighs.

“Two questions,” Megatron says, seemingly more to himself than anything.

“It _has_ to have been more than that.” Rodimus mutters.

Megatron is silent for a long moment. He stares at the phone he holds. “It’s not as though I am surprised by how many would have said that - said no to the first question.”

Rodimus huffs.

“Well, then, what would you have said?” If he’s trying for nonchalance, he’s not quite hitting it. “Or - anyone else here, when -”

“What would I have said when _what?_ ” Rodimus asks. “ _I’ve_ said everything I needed to say.”

He hasn’t. There are a million things - a million apologies - he needs to make. He needs to tell Drift he’s sorry that he didn’t find the Knights, that he couldn’t bring him back -

But he’s not sorry that Drift won’t have to die with them. Drift deserves better than that.

“If Getaway had asked you - those two questions.”

“Uh, did you miss the part where he was trying to get rid of me _before_ you even showed up?” He shakes his head, mutters to himself, “‘least I listened to Ratchet, _something_ good came out of that conversation.” He looks at Megatron sidelong, then sighs. “They’d never have asked.”

“But,” Megatron starts, and then pauses for a moment before continuing, “if they had? The first one, at least.”

Rodimus looks at him, and doesn’t answer.

“I suppose,” Megatron says, after a long pause, “it would be easier if my frame was buried under Nova Point,” _as you once suggested,_ he doesn’t say, but Rodimus remembers.

“We’re here because of _Getaway_ ,” Rodimus says, “whatever, whoever the hell he blames for it, me _and_ you, _he_ stuck us - our _crew -_ here with the fuckin’ DJD pointed right at us.”

Megatron looks at Rodimus, like he expects Rodimus to say something else. Rodimus doesn’t. Standing still is hard, especially with everything that’s running through his processor. He taps his foot.

“If you are _just_ going to fidget -”

“It’s a _stupid question -_ ” Rodimus bursts out, _“‘_ do you deserve a’ - who the fuck is supposed to know that? It doesn’t work like that. You’re here, whether I like it or not, and you’re crew - _sorry_ ,” he adds sarcastically, “you’re _Co-Captain._ And _unlike fucking Getaway,_ you haven’t done anything onboard for even _Magnus_ to have a reason to throw you in the brig.”

Megatron splutters a little, and hastily turns it into a cough.

Rodimus looks at him sidelong. He _knew_ it.

“It’s just -” he continues, “it’s stupid. It’s a stupid question. Shit doesn’t _happen_ that way, it just _happens_. If we tried to - there’s millions of years of people we all -” He thinks about the flowers around his statue. Thinks about the flowers around Drift’s, and how he had barely noticed them for how relieved he had been to see Drift’s statue still active. “I’m sure Getaway would find a way to say we shouldn’t let D-” And then he stops.

They _did_ kick Drift off the ship.

“You forgave De- Drift.” Megatron observes.

“I’m not saying I forgive you, or whatever. I’m just saying - look, we’re facing some shit odds. If you’re with us, I want you here. You’re crew.”  Rodimus huffs. “And if _I_ can ‘look past’, or whatever -” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” He takes on a slightly mocking tone, “To you, it was Tuesday.”

“What?”

“Earth reference.”

“Oh.”

Megatron considers the phone in his hand. Rodimus taps his feet.

“In Nyon,” Megatron starts, and Rodimus’s head snaps around to look at him, “Why did you say no?”

“You _remember -_ you remember _that?”_ Rodimus stares for a moment, and then laughs.

“It was - well.” He does not continue.

Rodimus shakes his head. “It was a lot of things, but, I guess, at the end - I guess it was Starscream, y’know, dragging Bee away to - I mean, he’s a gearstick sometimes, but it didn’t mean he deserved that.” He looks at Megatron, looks away, fidgeting uncomfortably. It feels weird to talk about Bee, now. “It just - it wasn’t something that makes y’think good intentions were going to stay good, if you get me.”

Megatron considers, for a moment, still staring at the phone. “You made a better Autobot.” He says, finally. “I -” His hands tremble, the phone shakes in his grip. He doesn’t say anything more.

“Yeah, no shit, thanks.” Rodimus snorts. “You too.”

Megatron almost smiles. “I suppose, then, it hasn’t been - all bad?”

“No. Not all bad.” Rodimus lets just the edge of a smile onto his face.

“Well, I suppose that’s good,” Megatron notes, staring up at the ceiling, “given that doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere.”

“Join the club.” He looks down at Megatron, and for a moment, Megatron smiles.

\---

**Now**

Not-Megatron laughs.

In an instant, Rodimus has leveled his guns at Megatron’s face - _just try it without a mouth_

He meets red optics.

He turns, looking forward, and lets his guns fall to his side.

“ _Liar.”_

He walks away.

\---

“What do _I_ want?” Drift snaps, disbelieving.

“What?” Not-Ratchet looks up at him. “Look, I found you slumped against a wall in here, it’s a fair question.”

“ _I was starving._ ”

“Okay, fair.” Not-Ratchet hands Drift another cube of energon; he takes it without complaint. “But - you’re right. You’ve been knocked by a bunch of crackpots in here, and maybe that knocked - what you thought you wanted when you came here - askew. So I’m asking.”

“Yeah.” Drift leans his head back against the wall. “Yeah, okay.”

If he lets go of the visions, lets go of absolution -

What does he want?

It turns out, it’s just as obvious as he’d thought when Not-Ratchet first asked.

“I want to find my friends.”

Not-Ratchet smiles. “Well, good,” he says. “But if you’re waiting for me to tell you that you _will_ , or if you’re waiting for anyone to ‘ _show’_ you it’ll happen, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

“No.” Drift feels warmth in his spark. “I’m _going_ to find them.”

“Hmm.” Not-Ratchet considers. “Who said that?”

“ _I did_.” Drift says, a hard edge in his voice.

“And,” he tilts his head, like Ratchet does when he’s pretending he didn’t hear something, “what was that again?”

“I’m going to find my friends.”

Not-Ratchet smiles. “One more time.”

He wants to be annoyed, but he finds he feels better every time he says it. “ _I am going to find my friends._ ”

“Good.” He looks at Drift for a long moment. “Good.”

Drift can feel himself stand up a little straighter, a fire in his spark, a fire that needs no protection. He drops his arm.

Not-Ratchet gestures at the box. “How much of the rest of this can you carry?”

Once Drift has stored as much of the energon in his subspace as he can fit, Not-Ratchet gestures down the hall. “I’ll - show you as far as I can.”

“You -” Drift walks after him.

“I think they might have figured out there’s something fishy going on. Might have to shut down so they don’t work the rest of it out but - I can get you in the right direction to Rodimus.”

“I -” the fire in his spark seems to grow tenfold at the thought of finding the _real_ Rodimus again. And Rodimus can help him save the others, and - “thank you.”

He nods. “Hey, do me a favor?”

“What?”

Not-Ratchet looks at him for a long moment, long enough that Drift begins to worry that the avatar has frozen.

“Don’t stop asking questions.”

\---

**_Then_ **

“C’mon, over here. Up you get.”

“Ratchet, you’re just as banged up as I am, you don’t need to fuss -”

“Shush. It’s my job. Besides, you were doing all the stabbing and the flipping out there,”

Drift sighs and sits down on the shuttle’s bench. “I should - one of us should really be -”

“We’re off the ground and out of orbit, the shuttle can handle himself, and we’re hardly twenty feet away from the controls if something goes off. Now here, get yourself some medical grade.” He hands Drift a cube. Drift drinks while Ratchet pokes and prods at his various dents. Despite Ratchet’s fussing, that’s all they really are, Drift doesn’t even think he’s bleeding.

“Here, this one’s probably crimped a fuel line. I’ll straighten it out and then check the line for damage, hang on -” Ratchet switches out tools from his wrist.

Drift sighs. “I can patch myself up, Ratchet, you don’t need to worry.”

“I saw you when I got here, kid, forgive me if I’m not exactly convinced.”

“Just because -”

“Look -” Ratchet leans back and looks at Drift, “even if you _can_ , you don’t _have to_. Just -” he shakes his head, “let me be useful for a minute.”

Drift leans to the side so Ratchet can check the dent more easily. “Fine.”

“Be damn stupid to finally get on the way home and have you bleed out ‘cause I missed something.” Ratchet says, running the device over the dent until it pops outward under the magnetic current. “Have some more energon, you have fueling habits like Rodimus, I swear.”

Drift takes another cube and looks at it, considering the urge to store it in his subspace instead.

“You _know_ I brought plenty over from my shuttle.” Ratchet says.

Drift sighs and starts sipping on the cube.

Ratchet runs a scanner to check the fuel line and then nods, apparently pleased. He keeps puttering around Drift, checking each dent and repairing a few.

It’s easier to relax when it’s just Ratchet.

“You doing alright, kid?” Ratchet asks. Drift can’t see his face, he’s standing just behind Drift’s right shoulder, repairing another dent in his upper arm.

“Yeah? I’m really no more banged up than you are Ratchet, I’m serious.”

“Your vitals _do_ look mostly okay, but,” Drift can feel the dent pop back out, but Ratchet doesn’t move, “It got rough in there,”

“Yeah, I was dead for a minute there.”

Ratchet laughs. “You’re a terrible actor.”

“Still better than you.” Drift grins.

Ratchet snorts, then pauses for a moment. “I mean, the ‘Cons down there seemed to know you.”

“Yeah. There are a lot of Decepticons who I knew.” Drift says. “Not exactly the thing you want to hear before taking someone back to a ship full of Autobots, right?” he adds, aiming for dry self deprecation.

“Don’t you dare get cold feet on me.” Ratchet says, gruff and unexpectedly fierce. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah?”

“I came all this way, didn’t I?” Ratchet harumphs. “Sold my shuttle. I’m going where you go, and I’d really prefer that be _home_ and not continued - ‘ _penitent monk gallivants through space_ ’ nonsense.”

Drift laughs, in spite of himself. “C’mon. You have to like space gallivants a little, you _did_ get on the Lost Light.”

Ratchet snorts.

“Not getting cold feet, I swear.” Drift promises.

“Well, good.” Ratchet says. “Still, can’t have been easy, with someone you knew.”

“Like I said,” he says, shrugging, “there are a lot of Decepticons who I knew, and a lot of them have tried to kill me. You get used to it after a while.”

Ratchet’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that Drift almost turns around, but doesn’t quite get there before Ratchet says, “You always were a tough kid.”

Drift snorts, mutters, “wish it felt like it.”

“Hey,” Ratchet says, because he can’t just let anything go, “none of that. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you?”

“You’re the one who’s insisting on fussing over me.”

“Listen, just because you can do things alone sometimes doesn’t mean you have to all the time, simple as that,” Ratchet says. “It’s going to be fine, so quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Wow, I’m amazed you don’t get more compliments on your bedside manner.” Drift rolls his optics, and Ratchet snorts.

“There. Done. You’re all ship-shape, now you go get yourself some recharge, I’ll watch the ship -”

“Wait, what about you?”

“Weren’t you the one who said one of us should be in the cockpit, keeping an eye on -”

“You kept fussing about repairing every scratch in my paint, you’re not worried something’s wrong under one of _your_ dents?”

“I’ll check myself over once I make sure there’s no problems with the course. It’s fine. Besides, I wasn’t flipping around and -”

“Oh for -” Drift rolls his optics, “ - let me _help, y_ ou stubborn old _hypocrite,_ ” he snaps.

Ratchet is dead silent for half a second before bursting into full-throated laughter, and Drift turns around to look at him, startled. Ratchet finally collapses, leaning forward, head over his knees. “I missed you,” he mutters.

“You too,” Drift says, softly. “C’mon, we can do this my way or you can show me how to use those fancy tools of yours.”

It’s not difficult to learn how to repair dents Ratchet’s way - Ratchet’s tools aren’t much different than basic aid kit tools anyway, and even if Ratchet is impatient, he does a decent job explaining what Drift is looking at on the readings as he scans for underlying fuel line damage. Drift takes particular satisfaction in repairing the dents on Ratchet’s back, that he _knows_ Ratchet wouldn’t have been able to get himself. He even manages to get him to drink some medical grade.

“Not bad,” Ratchet says, rotating his right arm, “ _now_ you get some proper recharge.”

“And you’re taking first shift because I did all the stabbing, is that it?”

“And flipping, yes.” There’s a hint of a smile on Ratchet’s face. “You need decent rest.”

“And you don’t?”

Ratchet sighs. “I’ll recharge after you do. C’mon,”

Drift weighs continuing to argue, but he _is_ tired. He gets up to make his way towards his cabin, with the shuttle’s one recharge slab. Ratchet follows him.

“You really are afraid I’m going to pull a runner, aren’t you? Worried I’ll get cold feet and turn the shuttle around if you let me pilot right now?” Drift teases.

“Given the state I found you in, I’m making sure you know where the recharge slab on this boat _is._ ” Ratchet snorts.

“Do _you_? It’s not your shuttle.”

“Autobot shuttles are basically the same layout,” Ratchet says. “We can deal with whatever ways you’ve ... _modified_ this one in the morning.”

Drift snorts. “Which morning? We’re in space. There are stars everywhere,” he says with a wry grin, sitting down on the recharge slab.

Ratchet chuckles, in spite of himself. “Shoosh, you know what I meant. Go to sleep.”

Drift lays down and shutters his optics, and realizes he feels safe. He can still feel Ratchet’s field in the door.

“Sweet dreams, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid the 'getting a panic on' bits, skip the first block of lines in Rodimus's scene after the scene that ends with "but I’m not seeing any better options popping up for you.”", then skip the whole Rodimus scene after the Drift scene that ends with "“What did you do to him.”"
> 
> Violence wise, this chapter has Rodimus being briefly choked - if you know the 'anger is more useful than despair' scene in Terminator 3, this is basically the extended, remixed version of that. (Yes, that's why a song from the Terminator 3 OST is on this chapter's soundtrack, I'm not subtle here.) Skip the very last line in Rodimus's scene after "“I know he does.”" and go directly to Drift's next scene, and then skip again the whole Rodimus scene after the Drift scene that ends with "“What did you do to him.”", and skip the next Rodimus scene after that.
> 
> We're one chapter away from wrapping up Act 1, folks!
> 
> Edit: I was really hoping to get ch9 written and posted before my comprehensive exams started breathing down my neck, but alas, it was not to be. Ch9 probably won't be ready until mid to late August at my best estimate, but it will be here, so hit that subscribe button if you want to know when it's posted!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me also as squireofgeekdom over on tumblr - come say hi! 
> 
> Spotted something I should tag or drop a warning for in the notes? Let me know when you comment!
> 
> I'm keeping a running playlist of chapter songs here: https://open.spotify.com/user/squireofgeekdom/playlist/1QhFMq9HW3RgahehHaS0F5?si=22_qNlp6Sdy7vh54_Gs2rQ
> 
> If you want to listen to the (increasingly massive and wildly disorganized) playlist I listen to for writing this, it's here!: https://open.spotify.com/user/squireofgeekdom/playlist/440fLEfuCYc9qbIz8cs77K?si=lmCvBf4BQjGzAp6en-U5Yw
> 
> I live on comments!


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